An Angry Man
by katinki
Summary: COMPLETE. Edward is a bitter, angry man, a man suffering the sins of his past. An emotional & physical recluse, he pushes everyone away. That is, until Bella, a mysterious woman with her own demons, moves in and forces him to face himself. AH.
1. I Know I'll Wake from This Dream

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You guys are awesome and wonderful!**

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**_I Know I'll Wake from This Dream_**

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_Mr. Cullen? _

_Mr. Cullen? Sir? Can you hear me? _

It felt as though I were dreaming, dreaming a surreal, terrifying nightmare, a dizzying world of mangled and contorted sounds and colors and smells. I had no idea where I was, what time it was. I had no idea how I'd ended up in this purgatory, this suspended state of blurred reality, strung somewhere in the gray area between wakefulness and sleep.

My mind kept spinning around and around, spiraling through a jumble of thoughts, images, and flickering sensations. Everything kept fading to black, only seconds later, to come charging back like a raging bull, flooding me with too-vivid awareness.

I had no idea how to escape the nightmare, or even if I could. I was absolutely powerless to stop it, to regain control of myself, because I couldn't even move.

I was frozen and held captive by my own body, a stuck, unwilling prisoner. All I could do was wait, fighting with myself, hoping no, begging that it would all pass, that I would wake up and find myself lying in my bed at home. _Surely, this is some dream_, I repeated, trying to quell the rising panic.

_Wake up, damn it!_ I demanded, trying desperately to bring myself out of the maelstrom.

In a brief flash of lucidity, I noticed that something wet and sticky coated my skin. I knew it was there only because I could feel it gathering and pooling; every time the wind whisked by, the chill and the dampness made me shiver. Or at least I thought I shivered. And there was a smell to the wetness, something coppery, which mingled with other smells that I couldn't quite identify. Confused, I thought I could smell freshly turned earth and the pungent odor of soggy leaves. And something else, something sickeningly sweet and aromatic drifted on the breeze. It smelled familiar but its identity eluded me.

But for all my wants and wishes, my body remained a useless and unmoving pile of flesh. I felt detached from it, like it wasn't really mine. All I could feel was some unidentifiable pressure holding me down. My body would not move; no matter how much I willed my limbs to respond, they refused to obey. Frantically, I tugged at my muscles, trying to make them do _something_.

It felt as though I were wading through concrete; everything was just so heavy. All my efforts were to no avail; I could do nothing but _be_ and wait for some change. And I was so tired, so exhausted, that I could not protest as I drifted back down into the gray, foggy depths of my mind.

_Jimmy, get over here! Now! Bring everything. We have to get him out. _

Another flicker of alertness told me that I couldn't really see, couldn't make out anything recognizable. I thought my eyes were open only because instead of darkness, blaring yellow lights blinded my vision, and colorful splotches floated and pulsed across my line of sight. Flittering in and out of my periphery, I noticed strange and misshapen shadows looming over me, black cutouts with indiscernible features framed by the halo of light.

_Mr. Cullen? Sir, we're going to try to get you out and move you. Please try to stay calm. _

I couldn't speak or respond to this odd, disconcerting voice. Like the rest of my body, my lips denied me relief. Inside, however, I was screaming in both frustration and fright, because while I couldn't speak, I could _hear_. It was so loud, a cacophony of disharmonious and confusing sounds. Horns and motors and screeching metal pierced my consciousness. Somewhere, some high-pitched noise, something mechanical, buzzed and grated. And there were voices that sounded hollow and echoing in my ears, none to which I could put a face or name and none of which I could really understand. It was all just a garbled hum of clamor and noise. Nothing, none of it made sense.

_How can I be calm?_ I yelled. _What the hell is going on?_

An abrupt, wrenching crash of glass and metal jerked at my awareness, interrupting my train of thought as I suddenly felt a tingling sensation ripple through my body. The pressure that I'd felt before vanished and it was instantly replaced by… _pain_.

I choked as a dozen knives cut through my body, slicing through my flesh. Unyielding, they twisted and buried themselves deeper inside. Waves of nausea swept over me, and I fought to maintain what tenuous measure of cognizance I possessed. I could hear the blood sloshing and chugging in my ears, pulsing with my stuttering heartbeat. My lungs gasped for air, only to release it in shallow, wheezy and gurgling pants.

_Make it stop!_ I pleaded, feverish from the onslaught.

_Sir, stay with us. We almost have you. _

A final shriek of steel rending rang out, and what I thought was pain turned into sheer agony. The knives cut deeper, ripping me apart, tearing my body in two. It felt as though I were on fire, burning at the stake. Yet still, my body refused to obey my commands to move and to escape the blaze and the torment.

For what seemed like an eternity, I waited, for what I didn't know. The pain had almost numbed me. It was so sharp and so excruciating that my mind couldn't seem process it coherently. For that I was thankful, acknowledging that I could not bear the level of suffering that I was experiencing.

Delirious, I slipped back toward oblivion. Blackness blanketed my vision, replacing the kaleidoscope of light and color, and sounds faded into a dull, background whine. Some part of me felt what I thought were hands pressing against my shoulders and back, and then I felt myself floating through cool, damp air.

~.~.~

A second later, I awoke. This time, everything was different. Instead of grayness and confusion, there was clarity. The fog that I'd experienced had lifted, and I briefly imagined that everything had been a dream, that I was lying in my bed. I could even feel the starched sheets covering my body.

A rhythmic beeping pinged clearly and loudly, and the low whir of electronics told me that I was not in my home. The air was drier and warmer, and it smelled of chemicals. Tinges of propanol and cheap air freshener were mixed in, creating the stomach-turning odor I knew well.

_Hospital. _

My eyes shot open, immediately glancing around. The walls were pale yellow and oddly cast in the violet overhead light. Along one wall were drawn aluminum blinds, completely blocking the window and thus, leaving me no sense of time of day. Along another wall, bulky beige machinery with bright LEDs and buttons dotted the walls, and thin wires and tubes ran from them to me.

My gaze slid down to my arms, both lying motionless by my sides. An IV needle was embedded in the back of my hand, its tube filled with an almost clear fluid. A pale blue clip was affixed to one of my fingers, its cord leading to one of the machines.

White, gauzy bandages covered both limbs, and upon further inspection, I noted that my right leg was left uncovered by the white sheet, instead held in stasis by a rigid, black plastic brace. My toes stuck out from the black encasement, but barely moved when I so directed them. Everywhere I looked, my skin was blanched pale white and was riddled with cuts and gashes and dark, purplish bruises.

As I processed my surroundings and my physical state, my chest and abdomen began to throb and ache, and there was a dull twinge in my scalp. But it was all muted pain, not like the ripping, sharp agony I recalled, and I quickly grasped that the IV was probably responsible for my reprieve.

"I see you are awake, Mr. Cullen," a feminine voice called quietly. "We weren't sure when you'd come to."

I pulled my eyes away from my damaged body and glanced toward the direction of the voice. A young woman, short and plump of stature, stood in the doorway. She was pleasant-seeming, all clear pink skin and styled blonde hair. For some reason, I noted that she, like many of the nurses my father worked with, wore brightly colored and patterned scrubs. Hers had white daisies on a dark blue background.

I wasn't sure if my voice would carry. Hoarsely, I replied, asking the first question that came to mind. "Where am I?"

"Forks Regional. Your father will be here shortly. He's with your mother taking care of some things," she responded with a sad smile.

I realized I had no understanding or recollection of what had occurred or why I was strapped to a hospital bed. Something about her expression told me that I didn't want to know.

"What happened? Why am I here? What day is it?" I stammered.

"You were in a car accident, Mr. Cullen," she explained. "And they had to cut you out of the car. It was a very bad accident.

"Your doctor will go over all of this with you. But you suffered severe trauma to your mid-section. You have several broken bones, you lost a considerable amount of blood, and you sustained some internal injuries. When you were brought in, you were not conscious and emergency surgery was performed."

I could only nod, not knowing any other response.

As she replaced my IV bag, she continued, "It's Tuesday morning. You've been out for a little more than two days, and you really should be thankful for that. Your injuries were not pleasant. Right now, you are under a fairly strong dosage of Demerol. In fact, I'm surprised you are speaking so coherently."

Just as I was preparing to ask my next question, the nurse turned and spoke toward the door. "He's awake, sir."

"Thank you for calling me, Annette," another voice responded.

This new voice I recognized instantly and I couldn't help but feel relief. It was low and calm, a soothing voice I'd known for as long as I could remember. But something was off, was wrong. It was colored with an emotion that immediately caused me alarm.

"May we have some privacy?" he asked politely.

"Of course, Dr. Cullen," Annette returned. "Dr. Gerandy was called at home. He'll be here in probably thirty minutes."

"Thank you, Annette. My family appreciates all that you've done over the last few days," he sighed.

I watched as she offered another sad smile and then left the room.

"Dad?" I asked, trying to raise myself up.

"No, son. Don't move. You aren't ready for that yet," he gently corrected, as he walked across the room.

As he approached, I noticed how haggard and tired my father appeared. Dark circles framed his light blue eyes, and his clothing was rumpled and disheveled, as though they'd been slept in. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was tense, even as he reached out to grasp my shoulder.

"Are you in any pain?" he asked, studying my face. "Do you need anything?"

I shook my head, noting that doing so was indeed painful.

"What happened? I don't remember anything," I asked somberly.

His eyes tightened and his lips pursed. The hand that wasn't resting on my shoulder gripped the metal railing of my bed. I could see his knuckles white with strain.

"You don't remember?" he answered wearily.

"Nothing," I said quietly. "There were lights and smells and then so much pain I thought I was dying."

"What's the last thing you do remember? The graduation party?"

With his last words, my mind was flooded with images, flooded with sounds and people and words. It felt as though I'd just been punched in the stomach or kneed in the groin. Scene after scene, it all played out, one action leading to another.

_I was so angry, not even thinking reasonably when we drove away. She begged and pleaded with me to stop, to turn around and go back. She was so furious with me, more so than she ever had been. Her nostrils flared and her shock of brown hair shook with rage. After she finished screaming at me, she threatened to jump out at the first light._

_It was her night and her business with whom she spent it, she spat. And I was ruining it, tearing her away from her friends and from that damned boy. _

_That jackass I once called a friend. I'd told him to stay the hell away from her but he wouldn't listen. And she never listened to a thing I said anyway. _

My breath caught in my throat and I strangled, unable to speak the words. The muffled pain in my chest sprung to life, and my eyes widened in terror. Fear clawed in my gut, and I suddenly felt sick.

"Where is she?" I whispered.

The hand on my shoulder stiffened, and I could feel my father's short, manicured nails digging into my flesh through the thin hospital gown. I watched him close his eyes and take a deep breath. When they opened again, his eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

"Your sister didn't make it, son," he replied, his voice shaky and beaten.

.

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**A/N:**

1. This will all be told from Edward's point of view. Also, this chapter is a little different as it occurs in the past.

**2. Fair warning:** This fic is rated M for more than sexual content. It contains themes and references that some readers may find difficult or upsetting. This is the only warning I will provide.

3. Back when I started posting this story, I used to do little Q&A sessions with folks reading. I've recently cleaned up the chapters' A/Ns and removed all those questions just for the sake of reading ease. If you're the type to peruse reviews, that's likely the reason for some of the interesting, perhaps off topic content you might stumble across :)

4. Reviews are like... candy. I always, always love hearing what you think. So if you don't mind, drop me a line every now and then.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Hello_, by Evanescence


	2. Down You Go, Suffer Long

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You guys are awesome and wonderful!**

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**_Down You Go, Suffer Long_**

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In my periphery, against the far wall, bright flashes of white danced and quivered, reflections of sunlight streaming through crystal. Like stars in the night, the oblong, colorless speckles trembled against the deep midnight wall, meandering from ceiling to floor. In a way, it was beautiful, a fractured, flickering symphony of light.

But my true interest was held by the glass in my hand, in its richly colored contents. Holding it up against the sun, I squinted and looked through the bottom; everything seemed different, everything was tinted and fallow, a sepia-filtered snapshot of the world.

A hundred shades of gold bounced and refracted through the hard-cut glittering facets in a myriad of dark tones mixed with pale. Ocher and amber and smooth caramel all swirled together, changing and melding with every motion.

I tilted my tumbler and looked inside, watching the amber fluid slink and slide, enthralled by the rolling waves. It was oddly mesmerizing, capturing my unfocused gaze and forcing my eyes to follow the eddying current. With just a flick of my wrist, it lazily sloshed around, painting the inside of the glass.

Scotch was a viscous liquid. _At least more so than water_, I corrected. It coated, it stuck. If but for a moment, it hugged the crystal walls of its prison. It was as if it didn't want to part, as if it relished its gilded captivity. Or maybe, just maybe, it was trying to climb the walls to escape. I wondered what it thought of its life in its sparkling cage. I wondered what it felt about being consumed.

I was drunk.

Without question.

And I really did not care that it was only three o'clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Nor was I bothered by the knowledge that I'd just opened a twenty-five year old bottle solely for the purposes of inebriation and that I was shooting it like I would cheap vodka. All I cared about was the smoke and sherry tinged warmth pouring down my throat and the way it settled deep down in the pit of my stomach. All I cared about was the fact that the more I drank, the less concerned I became with the goings on of the world.

For just a few hours, I didn't have to worry about the one hundred and fifty-two unread emails sitting in my inbox. I didn't have to worry about returning the fourteen voicemails from people with whom I had no desire to speak. I didn't have to deal with listening to their trite and inane chattering, their ill-conceived attempts at acting like I gave a damn about them or what they had to say.

More importantly, I didn't have to think at all.

Carelessly, I flopped down into the chair by the window and threw my feet up on the ottoman. The leather was cool and slick and worn from all the hours I'd spent in this exact position. I didn't know precisely why this particular spot in the house appealed to me, but it always had.

From this chair, from my hidden upstairs perch, I could gaze outside, watching time pass by. I could see the stream that bordered the left side of the wide lawn, now bloated and rushing from the spring rain. A stand of apple trees, my mother's long-abandoned attempt at an orchard, grew wild and unkempt nearby.

Every time I looked at those trees, half of me wanted to bulldoze them to the ground while another, quieter side of me wanted to repair the natural decay that I'd allowed to occur. On the rare occasions my parents ventured back from the city to visit, I could see the lingering sadness in my mother's eyes when she saw her 'babies,' as she used say, untamed and uncared for. Those days I wanted to burn them down and salt the earth.

In the distance, I could see my other property, a small, two-story rental house, a white Cape Cod with red shutters, which I'd purchased three years ago at auction. I'd bought it partly as an investment, but mostly as a way to manage my neighbors. Most of the time it sat empty, decaying and rotting slowly away, just like my mother's orchard.

I knew that I should do something to keep it up, that it was stupid to do otherwise. With the persistent spring rains and the warming temperatures, the backyard grass needed cutting and the front shrubs needed trimming. A bright green creeper with curling arms wended around and up the siding and had already made it to eye-level.

It'd been probably two decades since the place had had a new paintjob, and the last time I'd bothered to check on it, the porch steps seemed iffy. God knew, the carpets should have been pulled up and replaced years ago. I shuddered to think what might still linger from the last inhabitants.

I supposed I should at least make an effort to keep the place decent. Perhaps I'd call in a contractor to just… fix it.

A soft ping and vibration at my hip told me that I'd forgotten to dispose of my phone downstairs. With a sigh and shuffle of my glass, I unclipped it to see who I was choosing to ignore.

_C. Cullen_

"No thanks. Not now, Dad," I muttered with a grimace, immediately tossing the phone on the side table.

I knew what I'd hear if I were to answer. I'd hear the same old rhetoric, the same bullshit about how I needed to visit my mother, how I needed to return my brother's calls, how my soon-to-be sister-in-law barely knew me, how they hoped I'd meet them at the cemetery tomorrow.

_No thank you, indeed. _

It was interesting how they were the ones always 'intervening' and telling me that I needed to move on and move past what had happened, yet they always managed to bring it up in some way. It was almost comical, a game I played to see how many minutes would pass before someone slipped. And they wondered why I wasn't interested in spending any time with them.

Because I lived that nightmare enough as it was. Every morning, I woke up and stared in the mirror at the angry, inch-long purplish and white indentions littering my left side, my own personal epitaph, my permanent reminder. Every day, I walked down the hall past the door that led to what was once my sister's room. Every night, I sat alone at my dining room table, eating my dinner and staring at the chair she once occupied and the chairs the rest of them had escaped three years and nine months ago.

Every damned day, I thought about how I was left alive and how she wasn't. And I thought about how my father had looked at me in that hospital room. That night, his ice-blue eyes had told me everything: I should have been the one to die, not her. She was the baby, the last-born, the one that my brother and I had always protected, and I had killed her.

No, I didn't need to remember. I certainly didn't need to visit her gravesite just to have to listen to them chat and laugh and reminisce. And the thought of their pitying smiles and tormented eyes just made me want to throw things.

I wanted to forget, not remember. One would have thought that four years would have been enough. But I'd learned long ago that my mind simply didn't work that way.

Tiredly, I leaned my head back against the cushion and closed my eyes. In an almost unconscious gesture, one I'd picked up from my father, I raked my fingers through my hair and noted that I needed a haircut. _That_, that insufferable mop of hair, as well as its dark copper tint, I'd inherited from my mother.

Same with the eyes, although where hers were a bluish verdigris, mine were truly green, a bright jade or emerald, depending on the lighting. She'd told me once that I'd inherited the color from a grandfather who I never had the chance to meet.

The rest of me was a copy of my father but with a few inches added in height. We wore the same sharply cut facial features, the same angular brow, and the same lean frame. We both walked softly, and we both had a gift for stillness.

But that was where our similarities ended. Personality-wise I was as different from the rest of my family as night from day. I'd always been the serious one, preferring to be alone and left to my own devices. Even as a child, I spent my days locked in my room, buried in books, tinkering with models, or out hiking alone though the woods. I craved solitude and quiet. The rest of them were warm and cheerful, loud and sociable. They made me tired.

I watched in annoyance as the tiny light on my phone blinked red, indicating yet another voicemail I wouldn't be answering. I assumed that in the next thirty minutes, there would be two more, one from my mother and a third from Emmett. Tag teaming was their typical modus operandi.

Instead of answering, another drink seemed to be a more suitable response. Slugging what was left down, with only a slight sway, I rose to find my half-emptied bottle. I glanced around my office, frowning at the disheveled stacks of papers littering my desk, notes and invoices that I'd yet go through. I had time, however; that was one of the perks of running your own business from your home. For me, time was a flexible, non-meaning entity. My sleep patterns were erratic and unpredictable, so it was as common for me to work at two in the morning as it was two in the afternoon. For me, the only markers of passing days were the comings and goings of my one regular house guest.

Unhappily, I realized that I'd left my scotch downstairs in the kitchen. And at this point, I just wasn't drunk enough to leave it there, so I traversed the obstacle course of books and binders I'd left out the night before and made my way down the stairs.

I knew that Mrs. Cope wouldn't hear me over the crinkling bags and rush of water spraying against steel. Like every other afternoon, she'd already begun preparing dinner. When I paused at the entryway to the kitchen, I noticed brightly colored vegetables stacked in neat piles on the counter, as if they were politely waiting for their turn. In her typical fashion, her back was to me, and she was humming some tune from some other decade. But I could see that she was carefully slicing something bright pink and raw on the cutting stone. _Lamb, from the looks of it, _I guessed.

For a moment, I stared, watching her sure motions and listening to the rhythmic tapping of metal to granite. Unable to look away, I stared as thin rivulets of pale pink blood gathered and ran down the tilted sideboard and into the sink, where I assumed it would be flushed down the drain along with the running water. My eyes were glued to the flowing blood, and I could feel the alcohol in my stomach burning. This was why I never cooked for myself. The sight and smell of blood was nauseating.

It was a strange arrangement we had. Technically, Mrs. Cope was my assistant and receptionist for my business, but over the years, she'd taken to simply being an assistant both for the business and for me personally. For the most part, we understood one another, or rather had an unspoken agreement. The nurturing grandmother in her couldn't bear to see me starve myself, and at her age, she still needed to feel useful. She was a good typist, surprisingly up-to-date technology-wise, dealt well with people, and was organized, all skills that I required for my business.

Most of all, however, _I_ needed someone who didn't hover and mother me, at least not in a way that smothered me. I needed someone who knew when to leave me alone and when to be quiet. I needed someone who could tolerate my mercurial nature. And it helped that she was old enough and married enough that I didn't have to worry about anything more than platonic emotions.

"Mr. Cullen," she chuckled. "I hear you just fine."

"Mrs. Cope," I replied politely, startled from my introspection.

My gaze flitted from surface to surface, trying to locate my elusive bottle. Irritably, I muttered, "I just forgot something. I'll be out of your way shortly."

"Your scotch is in the living room," she said softly, motioning to the door with her head.

I could hear the disapproval in her voice, but as always, she knew not to press further. She had been around long enough to know when my moods were sour; and they always were at this particular time of the year. She simply continued her preparations, banging pots around a touch too loudly, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as if she couldn't see the slight stagger in my steps or hear the hint of a slur in my words.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Cope," I returned, turning at once on my heel toward the living room.

"Oh, Mr. Cullen, one more thing?" she asked, shifting around to face me.

Her features were soft with the wrinkles of her age, and seeing them twist uncomfortably with what appeared to be indecision was not what I'd hoped to see. Confirming my suspicions, she nervously wiped her hands on the towel tucked in her waistband, and her hazel eyes glanced from me to the doorway into the living room.

I sighed and looked upward to the ceiling, trying not to take my impatience out on her. But having a serious or even partly serious conversation was not high on my list of priorities at the moment, especially considering that the room was already wobbling and my lips were numb.

"What is it, Mrs. Cope?" I said in what I hoped to be a civil voice.

"Your renter?" she started. "I prepared her paperwork for you, but you haven't signed yet. I left it sitting on your desk last week. And she'll be here on Saturday. I'm assuming you'll want to have the place given a once over? It's… it could use a little buffing."

"What?" I asked, thoroughly confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Her eyes widened in realization and her lips turned in. "Yes, sir. Mrs. Lovelace? You agreed to her renting out the house about a month ago."

"I did no such thing," I snapped, losing my tenuous hold on my irritation. "Where is that paperwork? I want to see it."

"Your desk, Mr. Cullen," she replied formally, just as I was bounding up the stairs.

Approximately two minutes later, after pillaging through the third stack of invoices, I located the paperwork in question. Just as Mrs. Cope had said, it was accurately dated one month prior and was filled out and ready for me to sign. Judging by Mrs. Cope's neat script, the simple lease form had apparently been completed over the phone.

_Application Date: May 1, 2010_

_Name: Isabella S. Lovelace  
__Date of Birth: September 13, 1980  
Former Address: 1321 Summit Park, Phoenix, Arizona  
__Occupation: _  
Rental Agreement: 1 year from lease date, payment due via cash or check the 1__st__ of each month  
__Monthly Due: $1100  
__Method of Payment: 6mo. in advance, to be paid upon arrival.  
__Security Deposit: Equal to 3mo. rent, $3300 paid via secure wire transfer, 5/1/10. _

Again, I flung myself down in my old chair and glanced out the window, staring at the now slightly blurry empty and dark house in the distance. I had no idea what had possessed me to say yes. In fact, I only had a vague recollection of even speaking with Mrs. Cope about this woman. Knowing me, it'd probably occurred on another afternoon much like this one, and I'd responded without even realizing what was being asked.

"Goddamnit, Edward," I growled angrily at myself as I slung the stapled papers across the room. "Such a fucking idiot."

In the back of my mind, the gears turned. And a small part of me couldn't help but recall that Mrs. Cope had called her _Mrs._ Lovelace. Yet only _her_ name appeared on the application. Part of me was curious.

But I didn't want to see lights in those small windows. I didn't want to see flowerpots and curtains and other such nonsense. I didn't want to see evidence of people in my space.

I didn't want a tenant, especially some damned woman, who was clearly embroiled in some drama, who would no doubt be helpless. The inevitability of dealing with this woman for a year was infuriating and exasperating already; I needed to find a way to stop this at once.

.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Sin_, by Stone Temple Pilots


	3. Bleed in Your Own Light

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You make everything better.**

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**_Bleed in Your Own Light_**

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My eyes opened to darkness, that blue-black darkness of deep night. Only the faintest hints of light permeated the space, thin, flat streams of pale white peeking between the blinds. I could see only outlines, black, shadowy lines against an already black background. And for a moment, I didn't know where I was.

I glanced around, groggy and disoriented, still heavy with sleep. My vision was bleary, and all my lids wanted to do was slide shut once more. But I forced my eyes to open, searching for some clue as to my whereabouts.

As the seconds passed, blurred lines became clearer and shapes started appearing – a tall cabinet against a wall, a wide, flat desk against another, a stack of books on the floor. Gradually, I processed that I was upright, albeit slouched and sprawled. My body recognized that it was stiff and sore, seemingly from the stasis of a long sleep, from being frozen in unnatural angles for too many hours. Reflexively, I stretched, shifting my weight and twisting my joints and muscles, urging them to move freely and to relax from the awkward positioning. Beneath my outstretched palm, I felt a familiar coolness and slickness; apparently, for the second night in a row, I'd fallen asleep in my old chair.

I wasn't sure why I had awoken. Perhaps it was a sound, or maybe a dream. Or maybe, my body just had no biological rhythm any more. The glowing dial on my watch said it was only three in the morning.

Frustrated, I raked my fingers through my hair, only to find that my skin felt gummy or tacky, and my hair seemed to want to stick to my fingers. Confused, I brought my fingers to my face and groaned when I caught the smell of alcohol.

"Christ, Edward, what the fuck did you do?" I muttered to myself.

Now more than annoyed, I reached down and searched blindly in the dark. When I found my tumbler overturned and resting between my hip and the armrest, I sighed and cursed again. It appeared that in my drunken stupor, I'd passed out with my glass in hand. And now I was wearing my alcohol. And I smelled like it.

Ignoring the lingering stiffness in my muscles, as well as the sudden rush and pain in my temples, I heaved myself out of the chair and stumbled through the still-dark room toward my bedroom and attached bath. Fumbling around, I flicked the switch, and for a moment, the too-bright lights glancing off the cream tile and pale walls blinded me, forcing my eyes to squint and water.

"Two nights in a row. You dumb fuck," I spat, looking in the mirror.

I looked like hell. My eyes were flat in color and bloodshot, and my skin was blanched a greenish white and had an unhealthy, oily sheen to it. My normally clean-shaven face wore a three-day stubble that crackled as I rubbed my jaw. Not surprisingly, my hair was wild and greasy, matted and sticking out with no rhyme or reason – even more so than usual. And I still had on the same rumpled black slacks and white undershirt that I'd put on two days prior. I looked like a damned junkie or wino.

_Well, not too far from the truth this week_, I thought, shaking my head in disgust.

No, I'd not made it to the cemetery Wednesday. I'd not called my father the day before. And I'd not returned any of my mother's or brother's calls or texts since. Instead, I'd held my version of a two-day memorial. Alone and passed out. I had vague recollections of the only human interaction I'd apparently had: Mrs. Cope's head periodically peeking through the door.

With a grunt, I hefted my sweat-stained shirt overhead and quickly stripped down, suddenly wanting to rid myself of my soiled clothes and to wash my soiled skin. Purposefully, I avoided looking in the mirror, unwilling to acknowledge the truth written on my bare torso.

The hard spray pelting my back was almost too hot, almost scalding. But after a few minutes, my muscles finally began to loosen; the tightly wound springs slowly uncoiled. My skin reddened, and I could see wisps of steam rising and unfurling off my arms and chest. Inside these walls, the air was wet and hot, and it was impossible to see anything beyond the shower glass. My lungs eagerly sucked in the overheated, humid air, as if it could somehow scorch and cleanse me on the inside in the same way it did the outside.

Ever so slowly, the ache in my head began to subside and I could think. And think I did.

Her voice came unbidden, perfectly captured with all her anger and irritation.

"_Edward, it's none of your goddamned business who I date. I'm twenty-two years old and I have a fucking college degree. _

"_And it's not like you don't know him! Jasper's your best friend! We've known each other forever! Why can't you just be happy for me! We're getting married, Edward!"_

_"No! For fuck's sake, no! I won't allow it! I will not stand by and watch you waste your life with that loser. He isn't good for you; he'll never be good enough for you. God, he's fucked half the town! Don't you know that? And he doesn't even have a job!_

"_We're leaving. Right now, and I don't want to hear your shit. You've been drinking and it's time to go home. I told Mom I'd bring you back. Now. Get in the car! I swear I'll carry you out of here if you don't." _

"_I hate you, Edward."_

Wave after wave of images and sounds washed over me, and I felt my knees buckle. I staggered, and cold marble tile suddenly hit my back, holding me up. Grateful for something solid, I slid down to the shower floor and curled my knees up against my chest.

I looked up, trying to see through the pouring hot rain coming down, but all I saw was gray, hazy mist. My eyes stung and my breath caught in my chest, ballooning and pressing uncomfortably against my ribcage. I felt like I was choking on the very air that I needed so desperately. I hugged my knees, trying to stem the ache, but it was to no avail.

A lone sob escaped and my fingers involuntarily shot up and wound themselves into my wet, flattened hair. I frantically pulled at my scalp, trying to rid myself of the images and her voice. Barely aware of what I was doing, I buried my face into the crook of my elbow and chanted, "I'm sorry, Maria. I'm so fucking sorry."

~.~.~

"No, Billy, I do not want you to replace the entire damned roof. I don't have time for that! What part of 'I have a tenant arriving tomorrow' did you not comprehend?" I yelled into the receiver as I glowered at the group of bare-chested men climbing across the roof of my rental.

His gravelly voice muttered something unintelligible, but the tone made it sound remarkably like an insult. And I didn't need his shit today.

"Excuse me?" I interjected hotly.

He stammered a hasty apology and then changed subject. "Oh, no, Mr. Cullen. I was just telling Jake to take care of the roofers. We had a little bit of a misunderstanding. No worries at all. We'll have 'er patched up and ready to go by lunch.

"Now, you should know that those shingles won't last much longer. We can't fix everything with the materials that are up there. They're just too old and worn. That's a twenty-year roof that's not been replaced in thirty. You're going to have to re-roof that house sometime. It really needs to be done before winter."

Irritated, I snapped, "Yeah, fine. Just get the damned thing fixed. And do something to shore up those porch steps. I can't have the woman fucking suing me when she falls off. What did you do with the carpet?"

"Taken care of, Mr. Cullen. Sam'll have the upstairs done in about an hour and the downstairs will be done by mid-afternoon. There's not much we can do for that kitchen tile other than scrub it down. It's just seen better days is all."

I sighed, _The whole place has seen better days. Fucking disaster. I do not need this shit right now. _

"Anything else?" I grumbled in return, exasperated and already overstressed.

"Paul took a look at all the appliances. Everything seems to be working okay. They're old but the old stuff always lasts longer anyway. Less electronic crap to go wrong. He did have to replace some leaky lines on the hot water heater and he snaked a few of the drains, but nothing big. We'll be done today no problem.

"Uh, I've got the invoice if you want to take a look. I can have Seth or Brady hike it up there?"

"I don't care, Billy. Just get it done. Come by later this afternoon and Mrs. Cope will write you a check."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for your business."

This was ridiculous. I'd wasted the entire last two days, as well as half of Tuesday, if I were being honest, in my drunken haze, the woman – _Mrs. Isabella Lovelace _– completely forgotten. And now I was paying for my wallowing and idiocy, literally and figuratively.

When I'd finally made it downstairs this morning, Mrs. Cope had quietly reminded me yet again of her arrival. When I argued – more like shouted – and asked her to call the woman and tell her not to bother, to my immediate surprise, her hands went to her hips, and she huffed and told me to do it my damned self. Then, she quietly walked out the door, leaving me with a stunned expression and a slip of paper in my hand.

But the godforsaken woman wouldn't answer her phone. Every time I called, I was sent straight to voicemail, where I was greeted by a mechanical-sounding standard voice telling me to leave a message after the tone.

The woman had paid in advance, the wire already having cleared, and thus, I was stuck with her. At least for some time; I _would_ find a way to get rid of her or push her off to someone else's rental. _Surely,_ I thought, _she will want to live in town once she realizes._ Why the hell anyone new to the area would choose a place out here, I couldn't fathom.

Regardless, I really had no choice but to make the place at least inhabitable. And reluctantly, I recognized that the work probably needed to be done anyway; I'd acknowledged as much only a few days ago. Although if I'd had the time, Billy Black's mottled group of locals probably would not have been the route I'd have chosen. But they were available and he swore they'd have everything done before nightfall. For a price, of course. Contractors could always smell blood in the water.

~.~.~

Somehow, I'd managed to drift off to sleep – in my bed, for once – before midnight, only to awaken at four. Like the morning before, through the window, it was pitch black outside, no signs of life or the morning sky.

The only sounds I heard were those of my own breathing and the normal nighttime voices of the house itself: the whir of my bedside fan, the creak of a joist, the hum and swish of the dishwasher that Mrs. Cope had set on delayed start. There was a certain stillness in the morning hours, one that used to unnerve me, one that used to make my skin crawl. But now, after greeting the dawn so many mornings, I was used to it, used to the quiet and aloneness.

I supposed it was my own mind that woke me; it just wouldn't stop racing, no matter that I was physically worn out. And racing really was such an accurate descriptor; it felt as though I were running a marathon with no end in sight. There was an anxiety there, some fear of some unknown. And that, in and of itself, was exhausting. I chalked it up to it simply being that time of the year again. Inevitably, I would end up talking to my family and they would, without question, give me grief over my absence on Wednesday.

Begging for sleep, I tossed and turned, twisting in the cool sheets, trying to settle into some position that would allow me to drift off again. But after an hour of staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling, thinking of nothing and everything all at once, I gave up, rose, and padded across the hall to my office.

With a grimace, I flicked on the desk light and settled into sorting the stacks of bills and paperwork that I'd neglected during the week. I rationalized that at least it would focus and occupy my thoughts.

Matching orders to bills to receivables was tedious process, painstaking and monotonous. For me, the lines always seemed to run together, even when I remembered to put on my glasses. And unavoidably, at some point in the process, my head would scream in protest and demand a handful of ibuprofen. This was the part of my business that I despised, the part that made me often question why the hell did I bother. But then, this was the dirty work that made sure I was paid and that allowed the size of my bank account to keep increasing.

At a quarter past seven, I heard an unfamiliar sound, a loud and obnoxious roar, a sound that quite frankly startled the hell out of me. Quickly, I glanced up from behind the desk and out the window, scanning for the offending racket. To both my surprise and annoyance, I saw a rusted out behemoth of a truck creeping along the drive. It was too dark inside the cabin to see its occupant, but I caught a glimpse of long, dark hair whipping out of the open window, reflecting in a patch of sunlight.

Surmising that this was the mysterious new tenant, I remained in place, continuing the boring task of checking off names and numbers, not particularly interested in dealing with this woman. Mrs. Cope could handle everything just fine; she normally did anyway.

A few minutes later, I heard the familiar squeak and snap of the side door opening and closing. Muffled voices – Mrs. Cope's and this new person's – filtered up the stairs. But through the walls and door, they were just sounds, nothing discernable. Vaguely, some part of me was curious about this woman, and I really didn't know why. Perhaps it was just the puzzle of why a married woman would move to Forks, Washington, without her spouse. Divorces and separations were easy and common enough; they happened all the time. _But why Forks? Jesus, why not at least Port Angeles? Or even better, Seattle?_ I questioned.

My abstraction was cut short by another sound, one _not_ from downstairs. And it certainly wasn't one that I'd anticipated. It was a loud, deep _bark_ that sounded as though it were just outside my window.

"What the hell?" I grumbled, pushing my chair back and moving to the window.

Below, a large, black animal occupied the back of the truck. I had no idea what make or breed or whatever it was. But it was a big animal and its tongue lolled out from its mouth all wet and pink. And it continued barking, seemingly targeting something moving in the yard.

I hated dogs. Never had I liked them, not even as a child. They were loud, they ruined property, they shed, and they were just an annoyance to everyone around. This was even worse than I'd imagined. I could just see the thing tearing across my lawn, wreaking havoc and making a mess, not to mention barking all night long. I certainly had no desire to deal with this woman's dog.

But more importantly, this was exactly the excuse I needed to get rid of her.

Without thinking, I stormed down the stairs, not bothering to hide the aggravation in my steps. Before rounding the corner, the words came out before I could stop them.

"No. Not acceptable. No dogs. No animals. Just no. Not part of the lease," I started curtly. "I'm afraid you are just going to have to find somewhere else to go."

"I beg your pardon?" a soft, feminine voice responded, obviously startled and bewildered.

Just about that time, I rounded the partition and was greeted with yet another unexpected sight. I really didn't know what I had been expecting, but it was not the woman standing in my foyer.

If she was thirty, then I was crazy. _Mrs. Lovelace_ looked no more than twenty-five, and that was pushing it. She was small and slender with a frame that matched her voice: soft, not pudgy or round, just… _soft and feminine_. Her skin was pale in the extreme, more so than mine, like a porcelain doll, definitely not what I would have expected from a previous resident of Phoenix. And her hair, a dark, rich mahogany, was swept up and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Inexplicably, I had the distinct urge to pull the band out and let it fall just to see what it looked like framing her face. Surprised, wide, brown eyes stared into mine, as if she were searching for something and seeing what, I didn't know.

It took me a moment to register that she'd responded, and realizing that she'd driven me to distraction made me suddenly very angry. I had no business looking at a woman this way, and I didn't need this kind of disruption in my life. I wanted her gone immediately.

"The dog," I snapped tersely. "I don't allow dogs on my property. They ruin things."

"Mr. Cullen?" Mrs. Cope said quietly.

"Now, wait just one minute," Mrs. Lovelace interrupted sharply, her eyes flashing heat. "That lease clearly states that I have a dog and it has your signature. I've already paid the deposit and if Garrett damages anything, I'll more than compensate you."

"It says no such thing!" I replied, my voice rising in volume as I glared down at her.

A crimson blush crept up her neck and her nostrils flared. But she didn't break my stare, nor did she back down as I'd expected she would. I was used to people cowing and acquiescing, not wanting to loose my unpredictable temper. Instead, her shoulders straightened as her arms crossed over her chest. I heard her foot tapping in irritation.

"Mrs. Cope?" I asked, turning and holding out my hand. "Give me the lease."

And of course, to my intense aggravation and embarrassment, the woman was right. Again, something I'd apparently overlooked in my less than coherent state.

Inwardly, I spat a series of epithets and derisions. _Goddamnit, Edward. Are you seriously this stupid?_

"Fine. Whatever. But that animal is not allowed in the house. At all. I don't care if it's three degrees outside and an ice storm. I just put new carpet down and I won't have it destroyed. And I swear if it comes into my yard, I'll call animal control."

I turned on my heel, for some reason desperate to escape this situation.

"Fucking ass," she muttered under her breath, thinking I wouldn't hear.

And truthfully, if I hadn't been paying attention so closely, I probably wouldn't have heard. Over my shoulder, I called out, "Yes, I am. Rent's due on the first, _Mrs. Lovelace_. Don't be late."

.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Rocket_, by The Smashing Pumpkins


	4. You're Drowning in It Too

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You make everything better.**

* * *

**_You're Drowning in It Too_**

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The passing of time never ceased to bewilder me. Some days, it felt like a rushing freight train, chugging and clacking, barreling onward, stopping for no one. Yet other days, it felt like the sands had stopped flowing altogether, like the earth stood still, as if it were waiting for something, or, perhaps, nothing at all. Those days, it felt like I was trapped, like I was locked into some kind of continuous loop with no hope of moving beyond. Those were the worst days. Those were the days when I couldn't seem to breathe.

Thankfully, the week following Mrs. Lovelace's arrival belonged to the former category, and the hours and days blurred together to the point I couldn't distinguish one day from another. I spent most of my time hiding away in my office, embroiled in the latest business fiasco. One of my suppliers had blundered and took possession of the wrong item, leaving it to me to find his error. It wasn't anything I hadn't dealt with before, but it was a pain and required considerable time and energy on my part.

During my last year at Dartmouth, I discovered that I had a talent as well as a liking for locating things for people, things that were hard to find, rare, or, perhaps, just very specific. Back then, it had just been a game, a 'Let's see if I can find that old car that Professor So-and-So was drooling over'. Now, almost ten years later, I'd turned that talent and interest into a full-fledged business, one far more successful that I'd ever dreamed. I couldn't call myself wealthy, but in a few more years, I would be.

Primarily, I dealt with people of means, people who were immune from economic downturns and plummeting interest rates. Whether it be a mid-century collectible auto, a Goddard-Townsend armoire, or even a specific box at a sports arena, I found it for them. My client list was small, but they were constant, and they paid me well for my services. And unlike others in my niche, I always dealt discreetly with clients myself instead of shuffling them off to assistants. _That_ was what made them return. And, of course, the fact that I was simply very good at what I did.

And for me, for the most part, it was an ideal situation. I worked from home, conducting the majority of my work over the phone or via internet. Only rarely did I have to actually deal with a client or supplier in person. My hours were flexible; if I didn't want to work, I didn't have to.

But my supplier, an annoying but usually adept man named Jenks, had fucked up and it had taken all my limited patience not to reach through the phone.

Hence, I exiled myself outdoors to calm down before I destroyed yet another handset.

I glanced up, noting the perfectly clear, cloudless sky, a rarity, even for this time of year. It was that particular color that one would only really see when there were no clouds, no humidity, and the sun was just so. Directly over my head, it was a bold, saturated, almost electric blue that gradually faded to a pale cyan on the horizon.

It was strange sensation being outside. It was strange feeling the sun overhead and its heat radiating into my skin. I struggled to recall that last time I'd felt that; I couldn't remember when I'd last stepped onto my lawn. And it was strange inhaling air that hadn't been tainted by human smells. It smelled fresh, clean; my lungs involuntarily swelled to suck in as much of it as I could hold. There was a slight, pleasantly bitter tinge that was only present after grass had been cut, and there was something sweet and floral floating on the breeze. Looking around, I surmised it was the late blossoms from the orchard.

Slowly, I meandered through the yard, following no distinct path, uncharacteristically barefoot and with upturned jeans. Again, something I'd forgotten; it'd been so long since I'd walked outside without shoes, even the grass prickled the bottoms of my feet. I snorted thinking of what I'd become.

Once, as a child, I could have raced across gravel without even slowing.

I sighed in longing when my abstraction was cut short by a familiar vibration at my hip.

"Cullen."

"Hey, Ed," Emmett's voice returned.

He sounded wary, almost as if he was surprised that I'd answered, or maybe, as if he hoped that I wouldn't. At hearing his voice, or, more so, his hesitation, I felt a flutter of guilt for my avoidance. My brother was a good man; I just couldn't stand being around him.

"What's going on?" I asked carefully, resolving that I'd have to talk to them sometime.

_Why not now? Now? Later?_ I mused with a shrug. _What the fuck does it matter? _

Even through the line, I could hear him taking a deep breath, and in the background, I could hear what sounded like fingers drumming on wood.

"Ah, um, nothing really. I was just, you know, calling to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine."

Quietly, he answered, "I figured as much. Didn't see you last week. And Mom was worried. You know how she gets. She was hoping you would be there."

And there it was.

"Yeah, well, I was here. Like always," I clipped, pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation.

"Gotcha. You doing alright?"

I sighed again. "Yeah, Em, I'm fine. Really. I'm just fine."

"We tried calling you… but all we got was your voicemail. Wish you could have made it. We always miss you there, you know."

It always boiled down to this. Always. That I didn't measure up, that I didn't behave like the son and brother they wanted, that I refused to subject myself to their constant expectations. They just wouldn't leave me be. They'd made their feelings on the matter perfectly clear four years ago; why did it even matter now?

"What the fuck do you want me to say, Emmett?" I suddenly snapped, my annoyance outweighing my unwillingness to delve into this particular discussion.

"What, do you want me to say that I'm sorry I didn't make it there? Do you want me to say that I obviously didn't care enough to even make it to her grave site? What? What can I say to make you happy and get off my back? This is what you called me for? Because haven't we gone through this enough?"

"Edward, will you just get off it?" he spat in return, his voice climbing. "Christ, carry that cross, why don't you? I was just telling you that we missed you and we're worried about you, for fuck's sake."

"Whatever," I replied coolly. "Look, I'm busy right now. Work's a mess and I have calls to make. I don't have time for rehashing all this.

"Thanks for calling, okay? Tell Mom I'll call her tomorrow or something."

"Wait. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I obviously said the wrong thing," Emmett responded with a huff. "But that's not the only reason I called."

"Yeah, make it quick," I retorted, clenching my fist.

"Rose is pregnant. A few months along. But we're moving the wedding date up. Something about bumps and white, whatever that means."

That pang of guilt I'd felt before reared its ugly head and I felt like an ass. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to repress my earlier ire. I could be civil. I could be happy for my brother. I could pretend.

With some effort, I managed what I thought to be a sincere tone. "Hey, congrats, Em. I know you've always wanted kids. When's she due?"

"November."

After a quick calculation, I chuckled a rare, real laugh. "Valentine's baby, eh?"

I could actually hear the grin on his face as he laughed and confirmed. While I hadn't seen Emmett since Christmas, I knew what expression he'd be wearing. His pale blue eyes would be twinkling mischievously and he'd have that same shit-eating grin he used to sport when someone would catch him with his proverbial – or literal, in some cases – pants down.

After a moment he continued, but with hesitancy, "Uh, and I probably should mention. Rose isn't too happy in Port Angeles. We're, we're, well, thinking of maybe heading back to Forks. I don't know. It's quieter and we know people."

When I didn't respond, he rushed, "But don't worry, we wouldn't be in your hair or anything. I know you aren't big on company."

My irritation resurfaced, but I suppressed what my first inclination was to say. He was correct; I really wasn't 'big' on company and I certainly wasn't keen on the inevitable drop-bys that I _knew_ would occur. But there wasn't much I could say on the matter that wouldn't come out as cursing, so I simply said nothing.

"Well, anyway. I gotta run. Rose wants Ben and Jerry's and she'll have my nuts if I don't get back soon. Ed, well, we'll see ya around, okay?" he muttered.

"Yeah, Em, we'll see. Congratulations again. Give my best to Rose."

What calming effects I'd gained from my walk were lost. I was aggravated, already contemplating having to deal with family visits. Forks was small, so there was little doubt in my mind that there would be run-ins, and with Rosalie expecting, I knew my parents would drive in from Seattle frequently. After the baby was born, it would be even worse.

I made my way back to the house and wearily climbed the stairs to the porch. But as I reached the door, I paused with my hand on the handle. I didn't want to go in just yet; I didn't want to return to my stacks of papers and the darkness of my lamp-lit office. I wanted a moment of peace, a moment to reclaim what I'd almost reached before Emmett called.

So instead of going back to my dark prison, I settled into one of the faded adirondacks at the end of the porch, a remnant left from my parents' days here. No matter the weather or time of year, they used to spend hours sitting here, reading, relaxing, just being outside, listening to the stream and the wind, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

A small smile ghosted my lips when I noticed that the chair nearest to the door was perfectly clean and clear of dust or pollen and that there was local paper neatly resting underneath. Apparently, Mrs. Cope had found her own retreat, probably for times when she'd dealt out more than her share of patience.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the weather-worn slats, trying to push everything away. The breeze whipped around the corner, bringing with it heated, fragrant air. And in the distance, I could hear the leaves rustling and water rushing across rock. It was enough to send me close enough to sleep that I felt that strange sense of being disconnected from my body, that waking dream of half floating and half falling.

I wasn't sure how long I drifted – maybe ten minutes or maybe an hour – but a rumble and abrupt screech brought me back to reality. It was an unnatural sound, a manufactured, mechanical sound, something that didn't belong. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and searched, only to find a large cargo vehicle pulling into my rental's drive.

Curiously, I watched. The name on the truck I recognized, but it surprised me. No one I knew from Forks would have furniture delivered all the way from Seattle. Any reasonable person would borrow or rent a truck; the delivery charges would be astronomical otherwise. But there it was, and I watched as two men jumped out of the cab and approached the front door.

Before they were even half way to the porch, however, _Mrs. Lovelace_ bounded out of the house to greet them. While they were too far away to see facial expressions, from her exuberant steps and swinging arms, it was clear that the woman was excited. And that, admittedly, intrigued me.

She was the quietest tenant I'd ever had. I'd yet to hear that damned dog, and she hadn't called for anything. Normally, even the easiest of tenants was a pain in the ass for the first few weeks, wanting this or that, complaining that such and such didn't work. But not this woman. I hadn't heard a peep from her. Again, that was something that surprised me, and, as much as I would have preferred not, piqued my interest. Not that I would do anything about it.

After about five minutes, I quickly grasped why she was so damned excited. From the contents that were unloaded, it was obvious that she hadn't brought a single piece of furniture with her. Nothing. She was furnishing the entire damned house.

"Where the fuck have you been sleeping?" I muttered under my breath, watching them unload the second mattress and box spring set.

I sarcastically answered my own question. "Well, no shit, Edward. Obviously, on the floor."

This woman was something completely unexpected. I had no idea what to make of her, not that I had that much information to begin with. The questions I had wondered before returned with a vengeance. Why was she here in Forks? Why would she choose to stay in a house with no bed when judging by her choice of purchased furnishings, she could have easily afforded a hotel room? More importantly, what the fuck did I care?

But I couldn't help but replay our confrontation on Saturday. She'd been quick to call me out, and that had stunned the hell out of me. It was infuriating and at the same time…perplexing. So few had the wherewithal to do that; really only Emmett, and that was only when I'd gone too far.

Thinking back, I surmised that her response hadn't been a natural behavior for her. Her voice belied a far more soft-spoken individual, and her blush gave her away. But then, she could have been flushed due to anger, not embarrassment. What the hell did I know about this woman, after all? I didn't even know if she was still married. She could be a widow for all I knew. Or she could be running from a husband in Arizona. Of course, from there, my mind wandered as to the whys and wherefores of that particular scenario.

Begrudgingly, from what I recalled, she was an attractive woman. Very attractive, in fact. Even in my irritation, I could see that. Her eyes were a mesmerizing, dark, warm brown. They held a certain depth and commanded a certain attention. The way her hair whipped back and forth when she stared me down, the way the pink stained her cheeks. I wondered what she looked like when she smiled.

I laughed at myself and my idiocy and immediately rose to go inside.

About the time I walked through the door and into the kitchen, the phone - not my personal, but the house line - rang.

"Yeah? Cullen."

Through the line, I heard a feminine voice politely clear. "Oh, hi, Mr. Cullen. I was expecting that Mrs. Cope would answer. I apologize for interrupting you. This is Isabella Lovelace."

_Of course, and now it begins_, I grated silently. _Too fucking good to be true._

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _No Excuses_ by Alice in Chains


	5. Couldn't Look You in the Eye

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You make everything better.**

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**_Couldn't Look You in the Eye_**

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Fifteen minutes after _Mrs. Lovelace_ called, I found myself impatiently knocking on her – or rather, _my_ – door. While waiting for her to answer, I took a quick look around, noting that she had obviously done a better job than I had in cleaning up the place. The old porch was swept and clean, and despite the chipping gray paint, it looked almost charming. Even though it wasn't hers, she'd clearly set out to make it look like a home rather than simply a house.

_No response. _

Again, I rapped my knuckles in rapid succession, vowing to just unlock it myself if she didn't hurry up.

Potted red geraniums and bright green ferns were scattered about, hanging from old, rusty drop chains and decorating small mosaic tile topped tables. And on the eastern side, there were long rail planters with some spring mixture of vibrant reds and purples and yellows. Center, beneath the large picture window, white wicker chairs and a loveseat were newly placed in a loose semi-circle. It was impossible not to notice the pristine white standing out against the dirtied and faded siding behind them.

No, I didn't understand this woman at all. No one went to this kind of care and trouble for a rental. But I couldn't deny that, at least from the outside, she had turned it into something better. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that.

"Mr. Cullen?" a quiet voice called.

Involuntarily, I jumped. And then, I cursed myself for my brief abstraction; I hadn't even noticed her opening the door.

When I glanced down, I was greeted with the same expression I'd seen on Saturday morning when I'd barreled down the stairs spitting my arguments. Her dark eyes were wide and wary; she looked almost surprised, bewildered that I was standing here at her door, never mind the fact I'd told her I was on my way. For just a second, I caught a glimpse of white teeth timidly worrying her lower lip. And then, curiously, a pale pink blush colored her cheeks. For the life of me, I couldn't understand the cause.

_Fuck me, just get on with it,_ I reprimanded, once more cursing myself for my easy disruption.

I nodded, and in what I hoped to be a polite, calm voice, I asked, "Did you get the water turned off?"

"Oh, yes," she answered, her brows creasing. There was a flicker of something, perhaps irritation, in her eyes. "Did you think I'd just let it flood the kitchen? I cut the valve before I even called."

"Well, let's have a look then," I replied curtly, not particularly enamored with the twinge of sarcasm in her voice.

I let her lead me through the house to the back. As I'd concluded, the woman had brought nothing with her. The entire space was empty and lifeless, the beige of the floor bleeding into the beige of the walls. It was depressing almost, nothing like the splashes of color she'd added on the outside.

"You didn't bring furniture? Isn't that a little strange?" I asked suddenly, unable to stop the words. But immediately, I regretted my query, that I'd given away my curiosity. Really, it was none of my damned business and I sure as hell didn't care.

Obviously not expecting my questions, her head jerked and her ponytail whipped side to side, almost touching my upper arm as it flew past. When she looked back at me over her shoulder, I saw that that same bewildered expression was back in full force. She looked at me like I was something foreign, something other. _Of course, out of her own mouth, I was a 'fucking ass_,' I recalled_. What did it matter to me?_

"Not that it's any of my business," I amended with a shrug.

She sighed and her slim shoulders straightened. "No, it's not really, but I don't mind. It's a fair question. I didn't have a lot of time when I left Arizona. And there really was nothing I wanted to take. I wanted to start all over. So, I said to myself, 'Why not _really_ start over?' I doubt that makes any sense."

_Oh, yes, that answers all my questions_, I derisively snorted.

Something about her tone said that there was more there, something likely significant and possibly unpleasant, but from the narrow line of her lips, I didn't expect her to continue. The subject was closed as quickly as it'd been opened.

Thirty seconds later, I was staring at a half of an inch of standing water covering old tile. When I looked down at my feet, I noticed that she'd rolled up towels to barricade the hall carpet.

"Fuck," I muttered, palming my forehead and then raking my fingers roughly through my hair.

"Tell me about it," she agreed, as she leaned against the doorframe, tugging on the cuffs of her long-sleeved pullover.

"What exactly did you do?" I tetchily huffed, as I made my way to the utility closet to check the water heater.

"Me?" she snapped incredulously. "What did _I_ do?"

"Well, I'm assuming that you were doing something when this happened. What was it? Did you overfill the dishwasher? Washing machine? Clog the drain? What?"

"_I-_," she answered sharply. "I didn't do a fucking thing. I was directing the deliverers upstairs and all of the sudden, there was a loud pop. I'm assuming one of the lines in _there_," she continued, pointing to the closet door, "ruptured, considering how it was spraying out from under the door."

_Bullshit_, I wanted to say, but I was in no mood to argue. I was aggravated enough, and before my mouth ran away, I remembered Billy Black telling me that one of his boys had worked on the water heater the day before she'd moved in. Now, I was furious.

"Fine. I'll have to call someone out. Just hold on a minute," I muttered, holding up a finger in pause as I hurriedly dialed the number.

And within three minutes, I was yelling over the phone.

"I don't care, Billy," I growled. "Someone was fucking around in there on Friday replacing lines, and now I have water everywhere. I want someone out today to fix this mess. Like five minutes ago!"

Billy Black's voice was low and shaky. "Mr. Cullen, I apologize. We just don't have anyone to send. I'll get Jake out there first thing in the morning. And we'll, of course, take care of all of it, plus give you a credit."

"You're damned right you will. Tomorrow, Billy. I am not a happy man. In fact, I'm goddamned pissed off. I don't care what you have to do – if you need to send out that whole gaggle of fuckwits, you better do it. I want it fixed no later than tomorrow by lunch."

I glowered down at the gleaming tile, listening to him stammer apologies and repeat his promises that someone would be out first thing tomorrow.

"Whatever. Tomorrow. In the morning, Billy. I expect it done."

When the phone snapped shut, I looked up to see Mrs. Lovelace staring at me with the strangest expression. She looked almost hostile.

"What are you looking at? You want it fixed, right? You want water?" I asked acerbically as I crossed the soppy floor to leave.

Offering no retort, she crossed her arms and just continued glaring at me, not bothering to follow me out.

Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out a business card and slammed it down on the counter as I passed. "Someone will be here tomorrow. When they arrive, let me know. I want to see for myself that they've fixed it. I suggest you get a hotel if you want a shower; you'll be reimbursed, so don't bother arguing."

~.~.~

By the time I heard Mrs. Cope slowly climbing the stairs – most likely coming to remind me to eat – I'd managed to finally resolve the issue with my supplier and I was almost finished with the remainder of my invoices. My earlier irritation had subsided, lost in the monotony of numbers and paperwork.

"Mr. Cullen?" she asked quietly, sticking her head just inside the door.

I smiled indulgently when I saw her quickly inspect the room, obviously disgusted by the scatter and disorganization. This was the one room she would not straighten in her typical manner. Even my bedroom was within her domain; she didn't hesitate to toss my clothes in the hampers or straighten my shelves. Yet she never entered my office uninvited. I'd never really understood her reticence.

"Come in, Mrs. Cope," I replied. "Dinner?"

She paused at the entryway, eyeing the floor, most likely not trusting her footing through my obstacle course of books and miscellaneous debris. Her head tilted slightly and her lips pursed as though she were contemplating saying something. But then she shook her head slightly and merely nodded affirmative.

"Sir, recall I'm taking Thursday and Friday off this week," she reminded me, glancing away and staring at one of the oils on the far wall. I noticed her wrinkled hands turning over and over in a clear sign of anxiety.

"Gerald?" I asked gently, remembering our earlier conversation. "What did they say?"

"Oh," she mumbled, suddenly speeding her nervous wringing. "We're not sure yet. He has an appointment with a specialist on Thursday in Seattle. Dr. Gerandy referred us there."

"Seattle Medical Center?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you for giving us your father's number."

I sighed, momentarily relieved that I could in some small way provide at least one person some measure of comfort. "Of course, Mrs. Cope. Just let Dad know when you get there. I'm sure he'll be glad to sit in on the appointment and explain anything you don't understand. Or at least talk to the specialist afterward."

She smiled one of her kind, grandmotherly smiles, but it didn't touch her voice or her eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Cullen. Really."

Her ancient eyes were flat and pale gray, and her features were tight with worry. Even I didn't have the heart to say anything but a simple, clichéd 'good luck'. There was no use in telling her what she already knew.

~.~.~

At ten past ten, the late spring sun was out and shining for the second day in a row, brightly streaming through the kitchen windows onto the granite countertops. Metallic flecks sparkled and glittered, catching the sun. As I grabbed a late-morning breakfast, I couldn't help but stare, transfixed. I'd always marveled at the way certain materials caught and threw light. Even ordinary, boring things could be beautiful at the right angle in the right light.

When I'd come downstairs, I remembered that Mrs. Cope would be absent. But being Mrs. Cope, she'd prepared breakfast the night before and left it in the refrigerator. Sometimes I wanted to tell the woman I could eat on my own, but I doubted that would dissuade her. Food was the only thing she ever insisted on, despite my protestations. My occasional drunken rants she tolerated. My fits of anger and yelling she shrugged off. But God forbid if I didn't eat. I supposed that was simply an effect of being raised in the aftermath of the Depression. Considering the hell I threw at that woman, I'd given up on arguing with her about sandwiches and fruit.

I was already on my third cup of coffee and I had yet to hear from Mrs. Lovelace, a fact that annoyed me beyond what was reasonable. But I refused to call her; she had not seemed inclined to answer her cell phone when I had called before anyway.

Stalking to the front of the house, I muttered, "If someone is not at that house, I'll-,"

But the beginnings of my rant were cut short when through the living room window, I caught a glimpse of a large white truck in the distance parked in the drive. My responding 'humph' sounded loud in the emptiness of the house. "Did she not hear me?" I huffed.

But before I knew what I was doing, my feet were already propelling me out of the house and down my own driveway. Were the route straight, there was no more than one-third of a mile between the houses, but the drive wended around, dodging the stream and outcroppings of decorative trees. I still was there in little more than five minutes.

What patience I'd had yesterday had vanished. As a result, when there was no answer at the door, I opted to simply go to the back kitchen entrance, guessing that she would be there and could open the door.

As I rounded the corner, I slowed when I heard the sounds of laughter floating out of an open window. Her laugh sounded like soft tinkling bells. It sounded warm and inviting, pleasant. I realized I liked the sound of it and that it wouldn't bother me to hear it again. Vaguely, I acknowledged my inappropriate realization; I had no business thinking those thoughts. _None whatsoever._

But overshadowing that pleasant bell-like peal was a deep, grating bass. Immediately, I recognized that that voice belonged to Billy's son, Jacob.

Jacob was younger, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Eventually, I knew that he would take over Billy's business; he'd been working for his father since he was a teen and had started learning the ropes even before then. In truth, he was a decent worker and knew his way around a construction site, but to me, he was too cheerful, almost fake. And he was a good looking kid, tall and dark skinned. I'd heard the stories and had witnessed a few occurrences first hand years ago. He'd used those looks and a big, toothy grin to wiggle his way into more than one local girl's good graces. Obviously, that was his intent now.

"But I don't get it, Jake," Mrs. Lovelace asked. "He seems like such a jerk. What the hell happened to him?"

I paused abruptly, knowing instantly of whom they were speaking. It was perfectly clear that I was somehow the subject of their discussion. To my chagrin, I was two parts curious: what would Jacob dare to say and why did she want to know?

Partly mortified but mostly furious, I stilled and listened as he incorrectly retold what had happened to my sister and what my family went through afterward, inserting asinine bits and lies, all aiming to make me seem like even more of a dick than I was. He acted like he knew everything there was to know, all the details. He whispered conspiratorially like he was giving up some secret treasure, as though spreading the local Cullen gossip was some big deal.

He didn't know shit.

And then I listened as Mrs. Lovelace chimed in, her voice plainly sincere and pitying. Even though Jacob had it wrong, she sounded almost as though she could actually feel just a touch, just a slight bit of the ache I felt every fucking day. She exhaled, "Oh, God, that's awful, Jake. How he must feel… the guilt. He's so alone there. I just… it's no wonder…"

I did not want her pity. I did not want her sincerity. I did not want her knowing a fucking thing about me. After about two minutes, I lost it, and of course, about that time, that fucking dog of hers stuck its head out of its backyard doghouse and decided to bark.

Disinclined to listen to anything more, I barged up the back steps and banged on the door. Through the recently cleaned glass, I saw Mrs. Lovelace's eyes dart toward the door, wide and fearful. I knew what she was seeing. There was no doubt in my mind that my facial expression revealed exactly how livid I was, and I certainly made no effort to conceal it.

She knew. She knew that I had heard at least part of their conversation. And rightly so, she was embarrassed that she'd been caught listening to gossip. Hesitantly, tentatively, she let me in, unwilling to make eye contact. I noted that bright crimson splotches colored her cheeks and she fisted the hemlines of her long-sleeved shirt.

For just a moment, I was distracted, wondering how in the hell she could stand the heat in all those clothes. That was all I ever saw her in. But that abstraction lasted for less than a second. There were more important matters with which to deal.

"Did you not understand me yesterday when I asked you to call me, _Mrs. Lovelace?_" I spat. I could feel the strain of my scowl on my brow line, and my head was already pounding from the rise in blood pressure.

"I- I was going to call you when it was finished," she answered softly, still not looking at me.

Admittedly, on some level it bothered me hearing her respond to me in that way. And I couldn't quite put my finger on why. It was as though she were babying me now, like she felt sorry for me. That just pissed me off even more.

"Well, Black? Is the goddamned thing fixed yet? I see you have plenty of time to chatter," I snapped, turning and pointedly glaring.

"Yeah, it's done," Jacob shot back with more heat than I'd anticipated. "On the house, too. Even though, to be honest, it wasn't anything Paul touched. Just a split ring that probably gave when the thing actually started being used again. The house is old. Shit happens."

I was absolutely seething. But I said nothing, not trusting my tongue. All I really wanted to do was introduce my fist to his face. I refused to allow that, however; despite my demeanor, I hadn't touched a soul since the night Jasper and I had beaten the shit out of each other. That didn't mean I didn't want to, that my fists weren't involuntarily clenching and unclenching. To divert my anger, I counted backward as I watched Jacob gather his things and walk out the door.

As he left, he turned and called out, "Bella, just give me a call. You've got my number. I'll help you with the walls. Be glad to. It'll be my pleasure."

She smiled and returned, "I'll do that, Jake. Thanks again. See you soon."

_What the fuck was that all about?_ I wanted the scream. But I reminded myself of the dozen reasons why I really didn't care. If he wanted to lie to get in her pants and she didn't mind, who was I to say a damned word.

Left alone with Mrs. Lovelace, I looked up to the ceiling and took a deep breath. Wordlessly, I settled my gaze back to her, only to find her finally looking at me. In actuality, she was glowering at me with the same expression I'd seen the day before. It was like I'd committed some cardinal sin.

"Bella," she mouthed without warning.

"What?" I immediately responded, confused and jerked out of my aggravation.

"Bella," she repeated. "Stop calling me Mrs. Lovelace. I hate that name. And soon enough it will be changed back. So, do me a favor and just call me Bella.

"And _do not_ yell at me again."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter Title:** Lyrics from _Creep_ by Radiohead


	6. The Night is Yours Alone

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen and Scooterstale for pre-read/beta duties. You ladies are just lovely.**

* * *

**_The Night is Yours Alone_**

* * *

I immediately regretted my query. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have minded my own business. I should have simply bypassed the kitchen altogether and exiled myself to my office per my usual. But apparently, my goddamned curiosity would have none of that; instead, it pried my lips open and forced words out that I'd not meant to say. Mutely, I furiously berated myself because this was becoming a far too frequent occurrence.

"Pardon me?" Mrs. Cope asked, seemingly startled. She quickly looked up from her mixing bowl and eyed me suspiciously. I could just see the wheels turning, the questions forming. She was appraising me, rightly baffled and confused. That alone would have been a suitable and expected response. What wasn't suitable was the tinge of satisfaction that lined her face and the slight hint of amusement in her voice.

"Ah, never mind," I muttered, as I hastily grabbed the morning paper from the counter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her lips purse; it was almost as if she was trying too hard not to smile. Her hazel eyes were alight with mischief, an odd sight for someone of her age and dignity.

"Bella has roots here, you know," she answered just as I was turning to leave the room.

And again, my damned body disobeyed my brain.

"What are you talking about, Mrs. Cope," my mouth responded.

Returning her focus on her bowl, she spoke slowly, carefully, even. "Bella's father lived in Forks before he died. I believe she used to come up here as a child. Probably before your family moved here."

_Well, fuck me. _That little reveal, while somewhat absorbing, still did not answer the question I'd mistakenly asked.

I huffed and gave in to her obvious goading. "That makes little sense, Mrs. Cope. Not that I really care, but if he no longer is living, then that doesn't really explain why she's here now," I answered. "She should have just stayed where she was. Or moved somewhere… more interesting. Forks is not really well suited for people with no friends or family. Why not Seattle? Or anywhere else for that matter?"

While her gaze did not lift, I could see the corner of her mouth turn up. "I suppose not, Mr. Cullen. But people do strange things sometimes. They often behave in ways that make little to no sense."

She was clearly driving at something, but I wasn't keen on sticking around long enough to hear it. I often suspected that Mrs. Cope had thoughts about my lifestyle and choices, but unlike Emmett or the rest of my family, she, at least, wasn't so damned persistent and bothersome about it.

"Very well. Whatever her reasoning, it's faulty. I wish I'd never signed those godforsaken papers," I muttered. "Do you think she could be convinced to move?"

"For some reason, I doubt that, sir. Last I spoke with Bella, she seemed to be pleased with her accommodations."

_Huh_.

There were two distinct curiosities about Mrs. Cope's statement. First of all, my brain, in its ridiculous manner of late, immediately latched on to the fact that Mrs. Cope referred to the woman as 'Bella'. _How did she know to call her this?_ I wondered. Clearly, there was more communication going on than to which I was privy.

Secondly, I was absolutely bewildered that the woman could be comfortable and content in that house. She had no furniture for fuck's sake_. Well, perhaps, half of a house-worth_, I corrected, recalling the delivery truck. But the house was old, poorly dated appearance-wise, and it lacked most modern upgrades. Add to that, it was far enough away from town to make it a hassle.

"How did you know to call her Bella?" I suddenly blurted.

At that, a quiet chuckle escaped her lips, but thankfully, she kept her eyes down. I didn't think I could bear to meet her gaze when I'd clearly lost my mind. A string of profanities flitted through my thoughts.

Mrs. Cope delicately cleared her throat and answered. "Ah, well, I've assisted her with a few things. Nothing major. I just pointed her toward the grocer, the library, and a few other places. And we've spoken in general a few times. I'm sure she's lonely here all by herself."

"I see," I replied, having no other response.

About that time, my body agreed to obey my brain once more. Hastily, I continued, "Yes, well, I'll be upstairs. Just call when lunch is ready."

"Of course, sir. There are a few bills on your desk to look over, and also, there is what looked to be a renewal contract with Mr. Jenks for you to sign. Is there anything else that you need? After lunch, I'll make a run to the bank and to the store."

"No thank you, Mrs. Cope. I'm fine."

As I climbed the stairs, I could have sworn that I heard that woman mutter something to the effect of, 'No, dear boy, you aren't.'

~.~.~

I bolted upright, not knowing where I was or when it was. I was disoriented and dizzy; my mind was confused and terrified. Frantically, my head swiveled back and forth, trying desperately to right myself and to force some level of cognizance.

All around me was darkness and shadow, blinding black, punctuated by a bare slipstream of white light from the window. But rather than seeing nothing, seeing shadow, my eyes continued to see their last remembered image in vivid, over-saturated color. There was too much color, too much resolution and sharpness. My stomach rolled and I groaned, fighting a wave of nausea.

I could hear the blood gurgling in my ears, throbbing to the beat of my racing heart, and in the stillness, the sound of my lungs' shallow, disjointed pants was deafening.

I groped around, feeling my body, checking for signs that I was here in my room, that physically I was intact. My skin felt clammy and slick, and when I moved to scrub my face with my palms, I noticed my sweat-soaked hair was matted and stuck to my forehead.

I sat alone in the dark, willing my breathing to return to normal, willing the images away. My arms involuntarily curled around my knees and my head fell. Hunching defensively, or perhaps more so, dejectedly, my shoulders folded inward, cowering, as my body's last tremors slowly subsided.

It had been a while since I'd been so lost and so confused in my sleep. In fact, it'd been months since I'd last experienced that kind of night terror. But it was the same, the same dream that never seemed to go away. The pressure against my chest and sternum was so acute, so real, that I could still feel the residual ache. My insides twisted uncomfortably, trying to resign dream to dream, not to reality.

Knowing sleep was a lost cause, exhausted, I threw the damp sheets off and made my way to my bathroom.

Thirty minutes and a scalding shower later, I pulled on a pair of old cotton pajama pants and padded downstairs, searching for one of the few things that I was certain would calm me. Pathetic, but at that moment, I needed something, anything. When I found nothing but drops remaining of my scotch stash, I scowled as I remembered that I still had an unopened bottle of vodka.

God only knew why I even had it. I hated vodka. It burned my throat and left a raw, medicinal taste on my tongue. Even good vodka was shit. It was harsh, especially at room temperature, only suitable for mixing. And why mix? _Such a waste_, I thought with a frown. Mixing was for people who wanted to have a good time. I didn't want a good time; I wanted numb.

Regardless, I found myself pouring up a glass and then haphazardly rummaging through the antique davenport in the hall, searching for yet another calming vice.

The air outside was cool, but still warmer than the average for this time of year. Even in late spring, the Olympic Peninsula could be cool at night. But tonight, it was at least warm enough that I didn't bother going back inside for a shirt.

The lamp I'd left on in the living room glowed faintly through the glass window, providing just enough light for me to amble over to the old adirondack. I supposed that I now had two favorite chairs: one inside and one out. With a grunt, I comfortably settled back, wincing only slightly at the chill of the wood against my bare back.

In the muffled light, the strike of the match was a bold, vibrant fire, a small spot of warmth and brightness. In that one flame, there were a dozen shades of yellow and orange and red. I could smell the red phosphorus burning, a sharp, pungent odor that contrasted with the damp, earthen smell of the outdoors.

Not paying attention, instead distracted by the movement of the flame, I didn't realize until too late that I'd let it burn too long.

"Fuck," I muttered, slinging my hand back and forth when I felt the heat blister my skin. Shaking my head, I dropped the spent stick and pulled out a second.

It'd been a long time since I'd actually smoked with any regularity. It wasn't something I did often, but I found the aroma of tobacco and the smoky heat that filled my lungs when I inhaled to be soothing. There was something about the repetitive motion of it _– inhale… hold… exhale… tap-tap…_ – that enabled me to think, to calm.

My eyes lifted and followed the gray smoke trail, pale against the darkness, as it rose and aimlessly unfurled. Warm, translucent wisps twisted and curled, thickening and thinning. Just the visual was relaxing.

When I hit filter, I didn't hesitate to light another. So I alternated, burning my throat with alcohol and burning my lungs with heated air, trying to dissolve in the moment, trying to forget the bloodied images that had driven me out here in the first place.

About the time I was down to a finger in my tumbler, I heard an unexpected sound. Just audible over the rushing of the nearby stream, faint strains of a rich, bluesy warbling floated in with the breeze. When I looked out across the lawn, I started when I saw bright yellow light streaming through the upstairs windows in the house down the way.

"What the hell are you doing awake?" I whispered to no one. While I had no watch on, it couldn't have been later than three.

My brows furrowed sharply as I contemplated the whys and wherefores of this new situation. Even in my slightly inebriated state, it was oddly disconcerting, knowing that this woman was awake. It was as though my private time was being invaded. I wasn't used to having company in my early morning quiet – even if she didn't realize she wasn't the only one not asleep. Out here, away from town and people, I was used to being completely alone. The fact that I wasn't bothered me. A hell of a lot more than I wanted to admit.

I couldn't help but consider what it was about this woman that got under my skin. I couldn't even figure out what it was I felt around her. Mostly, she just pissed me off. I barely knew her at all, but she managed to infuriate me at every possible contact.

Every damned time we'd interacted, her mouth would start running. It wasn't what she said, but how she said it and the way she looked at me that made me want to hit something. It was like I was some misbehaving child, condescending and patronizing. The only thing worse than those looks was that goddamned pity I'd seen that morning when Jacob Black decided to clue her in on the local gossip.

But despite my irritation, I couldn't deny that on some base level, the woman intrigued me. Perhaps it was simply the mystery of her sudden appearance, or that she arrived with nothing more than a dog, some clothes, and that godawful truck. Or perhaps, it was her cryptic responses to my questions. Maybe it really was the way she looked at me, a way that no one else dared to risk. _But damn it, why did she blush when she snapped at me? _

Admittedly, it'd been years since I'd even bothered speaking to a female, even as mere acquaintances. After Maria died, I could barely function, let alone behave like a normal person and have normal social relations. The idea of being _happy_ or carrying on some semblance of normalcy evaded me; it felt wrong and foreign. I didn't deserve that, so my subconscious didn't allow it. So instead of forming meaningful relationships, I knowingly pushed people away. It was safer that way anyway. For them and for me.

"For fuck's sake, Edward," I growled as I flicked my ashes. My own mental ramblings were making me sick. "Get a grip. You're losing your mind. She's nothing."

Regardless, my fucking curiosity was going to end me if I allowed it.

~.~.~

When I opened my eyes again, I was at a loss. Apparently, sometime in the early morning hours, between the exhaustion and the alcohol, I'd drifted off in place. Through bleary eyes, I saw that the sun was out, although hidden by white clouds. But it was still bright enough that I guessed it was at least seven in the morning, possibly later. The grass was still coated in a layer of dew, not yet burned off by the day's heat. It gave the yard a light, shimmering gray cast.

For several minutes, I just stared, looking at everything and nothing at the same time. But just as I was getting ready to rise to go inside, in my periphery, I noticed a person approaching, walking up the drive. Despite the distance, it was perfectly obvious who the person was. Even if there were other people nearby, I'd still have picked her out.

Even the damned woman's walk was intriguing, I acknowledged. It was pointed, or perhaps, purposeful. She wasn't stalking or stomping, but there was something of substance in her stride, and her hair swished back and forth with the movement of her hips. Were it not for her head turned directly toward me – clearly, she'd already seen me – I would have retreated inside at once. Especially when I recalled that I was still in uncomfortably thin pajama pants and, more so, still shirtless. The idea of broadcasting the evidence of my folly and failure was not high on my list of things to do.

But when I crossed my arms to hide my torso, I finally noticed what looked to be a throw or small blanket of sorts bunched across my lap, as if it'd fallen when I awoke. While I wasn't sure, I assumed it belonged to me; I had an assortment of such linens hidden in various closets – all my mother's doing. I didn't remember bringing it outdoors with me at all. Either I had been more drunk than I realized or Mrs. Cope was already here and her mothering tendencies surfaced. Either option was equally likely considering. Nevertheless, I was momentarily grateful for the covering and draped the fabric across my shoulders and chest.

"Do you make a habit of sleeping outside, Mr. Cullen?" Mrs. Lovelace asked as she approached. The smirk on her face was as plain as day.

"What I do really isn't your concern. But on occasion, yes," I replied curtly, answering her non-greeting with my own. I had no idea what I was saying, but her comment pricked my annoyance.

If my sarcastic tone offended her, it didn't seem to show. With a grimace and stiff heft of my limbs, I lifted myself out of the low chair to meet this odd woman to see what the hell she wanted.

As I walked to the edge of the porch, I looked down at her. She'd paused on the sidewalk, arms crossed – again wearing long sleeves, I noticed. By the purse of her lips and raised brows, I realized that she was amused.

Dryly, I asked, "So, to what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs. Lovelace? It's early."

What sounded like a snort came out of the woman's mouth. "I would have assumed that eight-thirty would not be too early for one who sleeps on his porch. But I could be wrong."

_Goddamned woman_. Were I not half-embarrassed and half-aggravated by her tone and taunting, I might have laughed. But I was hung over and tired and sore from my hours sitting against hard wood. I was in no mood for banter.

"What do you need?"

Her lips twitched but she said nothing else regarding my sleeping habits. "And, again, in case you have forgotten, I go by Bella. I'd appreciate it if you could respect my wishes to be called as such."

_What the fuck do I say to that?_ I wondered, incredulous at her boldness.

"Fine, _Be-lla_," I said, exaggerating her name. "Once more, what do you need?"

"Thank you," she said with an inexplicably soft smile, one that touched her wide eyes. This was the first smile I'd seen from her that was even remotely associated with me, and it confused the hell out of me. My mind registered just a hint of warmth, some acknowledgment, something unfamiliar.

"Mrs. Cope called yesterday and asked me to drop by to sign my inspection form," she continued, the smile still lighting her lips.

"And, well, I need to give you my name change form. My paperwork came in, and I need to update the lease."

My eyes involuntarily widened, and my mouth started talking. "What is it?"

"What's what?" she asked. Her brows creased, and her head cocked as if I'd spoken some other language.

I huffed, wishing I'd have just kept my fucking mouth under control. "Name. You said you changed your name. What is it?"

"Swan."

Why did that sound familiar? Hadn't Mrs. Cope divulged that her father was from this area?

"My father was Charlie Swan. He was the police chief here until he died several years ago," she said in a small voice. Her eyes suddenly bored into mine, making me exceptionally self-conscious. "In case you were wondering, that is."

Her expression was perplexing. Yes, I'd heard of Chief Swan. He'd been chief before my family had arrived when I was in high school. But she looked like she expected something from me, like I was failing some test that I didn't realize I was taking, like there was some key thing I was missing. And I hadn't a fucking clue.

.

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**A/N:** Btw, the song B was listening to was _Ain't No Sunshine_, by Bill Withers. I'm really tickled with the reception to this story thus far. Thank you so much for reading and for your reviews. I can't adequately express the joy I get from reading your comments. Thank you.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Everybody Hurts_, by R.E.M.


	7. Here Comes the Rain Again

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen pre-reading. ****Thank you to my lovely beta, Scooterstale, for beta'ing ridiculously quickly once she made it back to the real world form vacation. My flubs have been fixed!**

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**_Here Comes the Rain Again_**

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For some reason unbeknownst to me, I began gravitating toward my front porch, sometimes at the most godforsaken times of the day. _Or night_. Randomly, seemingly for no reason at all, I often found myself drifting to my chair, my new perch. I didn't understand my behavior; it was strange and very unlike me, very outside of my realm of apathetic and dark solitude. It'd been years since I'd actively sought out fresh air or sun or really just somewhere _not_ the painted cage of my home. Half-heartedly, I tried to convince myself that it was merely the uncharacteristically pleasant weather, the scent of spring, the soothing rush of streaming water. I tried to convince myself that the allure had nothing to do with the goings on inside the house down the way.

Who was I kidding?

I certainly did not like the woman – _Bella_, as she wanted to be called. She was sarcastic, flippant, and a general annoyance. Granted, my annoyance would have been doled out to anyone that occupied my rental. While I'd had little to do with her, other than the episode with the water heater and a few occasional phone calls, it was still entirely too much. This woman's attitude just set my teeth on edge. I could not for the life of me comprehend her behaviors or cryptic words. And she certainly seemed to enjoy provoking me. This woman, slight of build but obviously not slight of mind, was a mystery, one to which I was unconsciously drawn. And for that, I hated myself and my damned curiosity. Why did I care?

"I don't," I corrected, nearly spitting with anger at myself. Because one thing was absolutely for certain: were I to bother trying to understand Ms. Swan or Lovelace or whoever she wanted to be, she would prove to be nothing more than another meaningless and shallow individual, another drop in the endless ocean. Yet despite that knowledge, here I was, sitting alone in the dark half-moon light, wondering why in the hell the woman didn't keep a normal schedule.

It had been nearly a week since she'd caught me unaware, having just awoken and scrambling for covering. Since then, almost every night, out of some disconcerting voyeuristic craving, I watched her windows from the distance, noting the lack of pattern in her sleep. She was my equivalent in that respect. Neither of us seemed to keep any regular timetable. For me, after that wretched night terror a week ago, I'd barely clocked more than four hours in a given night.

Each evening, the same sights and sounds greeted me. Slowly, my eyes and ears began picking out bits and pieces, details that I'd never really noticed, details I'd never been still enough to detect. Beneath my fingertips, the once merely flat surface of the armrest became ill-patterned grains of wood, long splinters and lines, hills and valleys, worn and rounded by years of use and wear. The skin of my scalp felt prickly and alive, sensing the breeze lifting and twisting my hair. I'd learned my lesson that first night and had since made sure to wear an old t-shirt out, but my forearms were still bare and the wind tickled my skin there and made my flesh pebble.

Despite the darkness, my adjusted eyes could see the outlines of swaying branches and shivering lilies in the flowerbed bordering my covered porch. On nights when the moon was out and the clouds were few, in the distance, I could even see the roofline of the house. On the clearest of nights, there was a white glint, a reflection of the moon's shining light bouncing off the gray slate shingles.

And the smells. I could smell the outside, the earth, that fragrance of green leaves and grass and sweet, wild blossoms. Tonight, there was something else there, too, something that I couldn't really make out. My mind picked through it, noting the nuances, turning it over, testing it against my long recalled palette of scents. It was faint, drifting in from across the distance, an ever so slight twinge of something chemical. Shrugging, I gave up trying to place it.

If I listened carefully enough, I could make out the crunching of leaves in the forest to right, likely the nightly foot traffic of feeding deer or perhaps even elk. Once, the swollen stream beside the house was merely a blurred rush of water. Now, it was more distinct, the light percussion of water gurgling and bouncing off of rocks and the river's banks, a wide and varied range of pitches and tones, light pitter-patter interspersed with heavier, slurred washes of water. It was cathartic, and it lulled me into a depth of calm I rarely reached.

I waited with bated breath for the other sounds that I knew I would hear. Inevitably, if the light stayed on long enough, I'd hear music floating in the air. One night, it was Muddy Waters, the next night, it was Collective Soul, and the one after, I'd have sworn that I heard Vivaldi. If I'd have hoped to gain any insight into my mysterious neighbor and what made her tick, I was sorely disappointed. Her musical taste was like the rest of her, surprising and perplexing.

Tonight, it was some Indie-style band I didn't recognize.

Every so often, I'd see a dark shape flicker across the small yellow box. I wondered what she was doing. I supposed she could be arranging furniture or unpacking boxes. While I didn't see boxes when I'd walked through, I had to think that she would have had something in storage. Perhaps, they were delivered at some point during the day. Perhaps, she'd bought all new. Perhaps…

_What the hell did I know? Nothing._

Each night, I cursed and berated myself for being such a fool, such a fool for wasting my time, for thinking that this woman was worth the effort and thought, for wanting to know.

_~.~.~_

As I descended the staircase, I heard the shrill ring of the house phone. In the quietude of the late morning hours, it was loud and blaring. For a moment, I debated answering, not particularly inclined to speak to anyone at the moment. My previous night's sleep had been disastrous, again laden with dreams I longed to forget. Even when I managed to not dream, I still woke up exhausted from the constant spinning of my thoughts.

But the relentless ringing wore me down, and I answered with a growl. "Cullen."

I didn't recognize the voice on the other end. It was calm and sure, educated in enunciation, but tempered by a soft, even timbre; it immediately reminded me of the voice my father used with his patients. "Mr. Cullen? This is Dr. Banner at Seattle Medical. I'm looking for a Mrs. Cope? She listed this number as an alternate."

"Ah, yes," I replied quietly, as comprehension doused the initial heat of my irritation. "Just a moment, please."

In my periphery, I could see Mrs. Cope standing, framed by the oak-stained doorway, no doubt reading my narrowed eyes and creased brow with anxiety. Clearly, she was expecting, or more likely, dreading, this call. Her bony, veined hands worried the stiff beige cotton of her skirt, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles, and her face was pinched as if anticipating inevitable pain.

Wordlessly, I extended the receiver and watched her hands shake as they took it. Before she even brought it to her ear, her eyes slid shut and her lips pursed, steeling herself. Knowing my elderly assistant well enough to understand that she would not want a witness to such a private moment, I quickly departed the kitchen and headed to the front porch post to wait.

I wasn't sure what the nature of the call was, but I knew that nothing good could come of it. Growing up in a doctor's home had taught me that much. Looking out across the growing green grass, my stomach sank, instantly quelling the pangs of hunger that had sent me downstairs in the first place. But there was nothing I could do to help the woman, nothing but try not to be my usual selfish self for once.

Approximately ten minutes later, from behind me, I heard the front door slowly creak open and snap shut, followed by light, rubbery footfalls across wooden planks. With a tired sigh, Mrs. Cope sank down into the chair beside me, her worn knees cracking and popping from the change in weight distribution and angle.

I glanced over but said nothing, waiting for her to speak. I wasn't sure what the doctor had said, but judging by the pink rims of her eyes and ruddy hue of her face, it hadn't been positive. Her normally neutral expression was heavy with stress and sadness.

"I'm going to need to take some time off," she said softly, not meeting my gaze, instead looking out numbly across the lawn.

"Whatever you need, Mrs. Cope. Feel free to take all the time you require," I responded gently, refusing to pry. I understood grief. I understood that pushing people was not the way to help them. It was a shame so few grasped this.

"They say it's stage four," she whispered.

I hesitated, but asked, "How long?"

"No more than a few months, three at most," she exhaled. I watched, pained, as a tear rolled down her withered cheek. I wasn't sure what to do or say. For despite my complete asshole exterior, I _hated_ seeing a woman cry. Especially someone such as Mrs. Cope. She was a kind woman and didn't deserve sorrow.

"Is there anything I can do?"

In reply, she looked over to me and smiled a tiny half-smile. For a moment, her typical formal demeanor dropped, and she responded as if I were her son or grandson instead of her employer. "No, my boy. I'll be alright.

"Before I go, I'll see if I can find you a temp to come in and help. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I understand that you will need to take me off of your payroll. I'll lay out the forms for you to sign."

"Nonsense, Shelly," I replied, automatically placing my hand lightly over hers. Comfort was not my strong point, but I very well couldn't allow this, not from a woman who'd been the closest thing I had to a friend for the last four years, not from a woman who had gently forced me to eat when I couldn't make myself, and not from a woman who'd cleaned up my vomit and taken care of me at my worst.

"I'm thirty-two years old. I can manage on my own. At least until you come back," I said firmly. "And I'll hear none of this 'taking you off the payroll'. Don't be ridiculous."

"I can't allow that, Mr. Cullen," she answered uncomfortably, glancing down at my hand covering hers. "It's not right."

I huffed, mostly for show, and withdrew my hand. "Mrs. Cope, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell me my business. You take whatever time you need and we'll deal with the money part… later or something," I said with a seemingly indifferent nod of my head.

In a voice barely above a whisper, she replied a simple, "Thank you."

Feigning impatience, I raked my hand through my hair and directed, "Now, you need to get out of here. You have far more important things awaiting you."

"Let me get your lunch, sir. And I was planning to make a run to the grocer this afternoon."

"Mrs. Cope, please. Just go on home. I promise that I will be just fine. Okay, maybe not 'just fine', because yes, I know I'm a handful. But I'll eat and pay my bills. I promise," I answered with a chuckle.

She needed to leave. She needed to spend all the time she could with her loved one. Because I knew what it was like to have that ripped away, what it meant not to be able to say goodbye, what it was like to live with that kind of regret. And I wouldn't wish that agony on my worst enemy.

_~.~.~_

It had been four days since Mrs. Cope's departure, and that very first Monday, I realized that I had spoken a horrible lie. Yes, I was thirty-two years old, but no, I could not manage on my own, at least not without copious amounts of cursing and scotch. Until faced with the task, I'd not realized just how much Mrs. Cope handled on my behalf.

It'd been ages since I'd ventured into Forks for any real reason, but with no one else to do it for me, I understood that I now had to take care of basic necessities such as groceries and banking myself. And it hadn't been too terrible. Other than the occasional incredulous look and whispers at the checkout counter, I'd managed to take care of my errands with relative ease. I was actually surprised that I'd dealt with everything in only a matter of hours and that I'd done so without ripping into anyone for his or her incompetence.

All in all, I'd have argued that it had been a successful morning. But before the words were out of my mouth, just as I was departing town and heading back home, the skies opened up, likely the edge of the slow-moving front I'd heard predicted on the news the night before. There was little to no warning; one moment it was clear, albeit cloudy, and the next, it was pouring. I had to scurry to shut the windows that I'd left open.

The rain was so heavy, blowing sideways and hard, that even with the high performance wipers on my Volvo, I could barely see ten feet in front me. Everything was washed out and gray, blurred and obscured by the fat, pelting droplets. And it was so loud against the metal roof of my car, like thundering horse hooves pounding the ground. I quickly gave up trying to hear my radio.

"Idiot," I muttered under my breath. "If you'd just gotten up earlier, you'd have been home by now."

As I was rounding a bend, perhaps five to six miles from my drive, a figure on the side of the road suddenly popped into my range of sight, causing me to immediately hit my brakes. I was fortunate that I'd been going fairly slowly due to the inclement weather; otherwise, I was certain that the car would have skidded on the slick, red mud that had washed across the road.

"What the hell?" I nearly shouted.

While I'd thrown on my brakes, I'd still managed to pass the individual. Looking back into my rear view, I instantly recognized the figure. In the haze, I couldn't see her face, but the shape and stride – now, jogging – I knew without question.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered. I had no desire whatsoever to sit in her presence for any length of time. And no doubt, my leather would not appreciate being soaked. But I couldn't very well leave her stranded out on the side of the road in this hurricane. I had enough gentlemanly manners left that were I to drive on, it would eat away at my conscience for the week. With an annoyed sigh and another round of curses, I backed the car up and rolled down the window.

"Get in," I snapped.

Two seconds later, I found myself staring into the surprised, wide eyes of one Ms. Isabella Swan.

She was absolutely drenched; not an inch of fabric on the woman was dry. Her hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail per her usual, looked more like a drowned rat's tail than anything. Drops of water ran down her temples and flushed cheeks in thin rivulets, dripping on the seat, the console, everything.

My car smelled wet. And admittedly… _good_. The entire cabin was suddenly filled and saturated with the scent of faint, feminine perfume, something sweet and floral, and there was just a hint of perspiration. It took all of my restraint to not gulp it in. I couldn't remember the last time I'd smelled something so appealing.

And then, inevitably, the man in me noticed what she was wearing and the effects of the downpour. _White_. _Of course,_ I sighed, trying to not roll my eyes. Yes, of course she would be wearing a thin, long-sleeved white shirt that clung to her like a second skin, outlining a figure that I'd only guessed at before. Thankfully, she was also wearing a sports bra – the outline was clear beneath the now-sheer fabric of her top. But even with that additional layer, it was perfectly obvious that she was cold.

"Christ," I grumbled, jerking my eyes away. Trying to distract myself, I fumbled with the thermostat.

"Thank you," she panted, breathless, certainly unaware of my ogling. "Where the hell did this," she continued, waving a hand at the gray scene in front of us, "come from?"

"Whatever. I couldn't just let you fucking drown," I answered gruffly, still trying to rid my mind of the image of her clinging shirt. "Don't you watch the news?"

Once she'd clicked her seatbelt, I tapped the gas and continued. But invariably, my luck was shit. About the time we started moving, down the road, I saw the tell-tale flashing crossing lights and the long black and white striped arm, signaling the imminent passing of the two o'clock freight train.

_Goddamnit, could this get any worse?_ I questioned silently, gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel in irritation.

With an exaggerated sigh, I slowed back to a halt to wait out the train. I knew from experience that depending on the day of the week and time of year, that this could be a wait of anywhere from three minutes to twelve. Today, likely, it would be twelve. _Fucking fantastic._

"What are you doing all the way out here anyway?" I asked, keeping my eyes forward to avoid that godforsaken shirt. In front of us, the first few log-laden railcars crept by, their clanking rumbling over the beating rain.

"Running," she said simply.

"In the rain?" I replied sarcastically.

At that, she snorted, and I couldn't help but glance back to her face. She wore an amused smile and her dark eyes echoed her lips.

"Yes, precisely," she answered in tone that matched mine. "I just love running in the rain.

"No, Mr. Cullen," she sighed when I refused to acknowledge her taunt. "I didn't know it was going to come a deluge. I don't make a habit of purposefully drowning myself."

"I see," I replied stiffly, forcing myself to behave. It would not be beneficial to allow an argument with this woman when I was stuck with her for more than two minutes.

"So, you run regularly then?" I asked, attempting small talk. I was incredibly out of practice when it came to casual conversation, and it showed.

She smiled up at me, her small white teeth glinting in the low light of the car. It was as if she understood that I was holding myself in check and trying to do the same. "Occasionally. When I need to vent some stress."

_Now, that is interesting. _I thought silently._ What kind of stress can this woman have? She's apparently rid herself of her spouse. She has no children – that I know of – and she doesn't work. How stressful can your life be, Ms. Swan?_ I wanted to ask. But I clamped my lips together, fearing allowing my lips to part, knowing that my brain and my body were poorly connected as of late. Why, oh why, did I give a damn? _I don't_, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time.

"What about you?" she asked suddenly, freeing me from my stalemate. "What do you do to vent?"

_Drink. _

While that was an honest answer, I didn't think it would be smart to divulge my vices to a perfect and utter stranger. So I lied, hoping to give her an answer that didn't make me look like the unworthy soul I was.

"Music. Piano, Ms. Swan," I heard myself flatly respond. It wasn't a lie that I could play; in fact, I played piano quite well. But the lie was that I had barely touched an instrument since before Maria died. I just didn't have it in me. On rare occasion would I sit down in front of the keys, and even then, I'd play but for a few moments, before smacking my palms down in frustration.

Something in my answer, however, made her russet eyes flash. Apparently, _I_ had surprised _her_ for once. "It's Bella," she reminded me. Continuing, she eyed me inquisitively and softly questioned, "What do you play?" It was like she was trying to make some sense of me, like she was trying to unravel me. "What types of music?"

_Of course, she would be interested in this. How could I expect anything different? Fucking idiot. You should have just told her you are a drunken asshole. Then maybe she'd be too disgusted to ask anything else. _

"Nothing in particular," I answered vaguely, hoping to halt the conversation. Down the track, I could see the last cars approaching. I prayed they'd hurry. I had no desire to discuss this, or really anything about myself. This was none of her damned business. I should have just left her on the side of the road. Some part of me recognized the dislike I had for the woman was irrational, but it was for naught. I just wanted to be back in my office at home. _Alone_. And not encumbered by a woman who looked at me and spoke to me like I was some experiment, or maybe more like some pitiful caged creature behind steel bars.

"I haven't heard anyone play in so long. My mother used to," she continued, almost as if she didn't hear me. The wistfulness in her voice disarmed me. Hesitantly, she asked, "I don't suppose I'd ever get to hear you play?"

"No," I answered curtly, offering no other explanation and pointedly ignoring the fallen expression on her face. Fortunately for me, about that time the arm lifted, granting me the excuse of concentrating on the road instead of fielding any more of her questions.

After ten minutes of silence, punctuated by the drumming of the rain, I finally pulled into her drive. As her hand gripped the door handle, she turned to me and repeated politely, "Thank you again, Mr. Cullen."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't go running the rain again," I remarked, trying to encourage her exit. I thought for a moment, and before I knew what I was saying, my body again disconnecting from my brain, I huffed, "And for God's sake, if you are going to make me call you Bella, just fucking call me Edward."

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Wake Me Up When September Ends_ by Greenday


	8. Dancing on the Stage

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen for pre-reading and assuaging my always-present nerves. Thank you to my lovely beta, Scooterstale, for beta'ing ridiculously quickly once she made it back to the real world form vacation. My flubs have been fixed!  
**

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**_Dancing on the Stage_**

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"Nice to meet you, _Edward_ Cullen," she smirked. And like that, she was gone, bounding through the rain along the gravel drive toward her home – my house – in all her sheer whiteness and feminine perfume.

_Damnable woman_, I nearly growled, peeling away too quickly for the conditions.

No more than three minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, arms loaded down with the spoils of my shopping excursion. As I started putting the items away, I snorted, realizing that I hadn't a clue where half of it belonged. How I'd managed to lose – or perhaps, more accurately, give over – so much of my home and responsibilities was almost reprehensible. Were it not for my lack of it, I should have felt some measure of shame.

When my hands met the stiff cardboard of the carton of eggs I'd purchased, I paused, contemplating. I was an absolute shit cook and sorely out of practice, but I thought I could, at least, recall how to make eggs or, perhaps, even an omelet if I were of the mind. And about now, I had to admit that I was hungry, beyond hungry really. I supposed that foregoing breakfast and lunch was not in keeping with the promise I'd made to Mrs. Cope. So, in an attempt to make good on my word and to assuage my stomach, I laid the carton aside and fished through the drawers of the refrigerator, searching for other ingredients I could add.

What started out as an innocent enough meal turned into something beyond the moment I broke the first shell across the edge of the sink. As soon as I heard the crack, I was immediately transported back in time, back to some period of my younger, happier years. As clearly as if they were beside me, I could see and hear my family. It was almost as if their ghosts inhabited my space, flitting around the kitchen, preparing a family meal.

I could see crisp white cotton of my father's pinpoint oxford as he sat, leaned back, reading the paper. I could feel the silken texture of my mother's ivory blouse as she hugged me 'good morning'. I could hear Emmett groaning and barreling down the hallway, and I could see him as he emerged, his hair sticking out and wild, almost as untamed as mine.

The smells of breakfast, of bacon frying and of dark, rich fruit jams, filled my nostrils, burning my lungs in memory. Fat popped and sizzled, the oven pinged, and I could even hear the lazy, shuffling steps of my own bare feet against the cold tile.

Sundays had always been family time, something ingrained since birth and never questioned. Even when Emmett and I had moved out and gone away to school, if we were home visiting, Sundays belonged to my mother and my sister. They were untouchable. Sundays were the days when we caught up with each other, sharing the details of our always-hectic lives. Even when my father was on call, he tried his hardest to make the meal.

Looking over to the counter by the window, I could see the specter of my sister leaning down and poring over her recipe book, jammed full of pink post-its and tabs, asking my mother what she thought about this ingredient or that. Carefree and light, my mother would command us 'men' to get to chopping and cutting and grinding. I'd always laughed when Maria cajoled Emmett into setting the table; he always complied, despite his grumbling about the assault to his manhood. She was always like that, sweet and cheerful; we all wanted to make her smile. Even me, all quiet and brooding, I'd have jumped through hoops at her request.

A loud pop and a singe to my wrist jerked me back to the present just in time to see that in my distraction, I'd managed to burn my omelet. The remembered smells of my youth were replaced by pungency and oily smoke.

I started to curse, but before the words came, I just sighed, too tired and too apathetic to bother. No one would hear me anyway. Exhausted, food forgotten, I bent in half across the countertop, laying my head down and pressing my cheek to the stone. It felt cool, glass smooth, and hard, no warmth, no nothing. It was sterile, dead.

I closed my eyes, wishing so badly that I _could_ just forget, that I _could_ just move on and have a normal, decent life. Because I realized that this was to what my life had dissolved: abject misery and bitterness and being haunted by the very people I both loved and hated the most.

~.~.~

On the verge of some form of half-sleep, I heard a light rapping, like someone hesitantly tapping sheet metal or glass. For a moment, it didn't register; it was merely a fuzzy hint of a sound, like perhaps part of some dream that was forming. But it was incessant, growing louder with each passing second, and no matter how much I willed it, it would just not go away.

When my mind came to, finally clearing, my eyes shot open and blinked rapidly. For a few seconds, I was disoriented, not recalling and not understanding why my head was resting against something so hard and rigid. But then focus returned, and I saw the cocked images of light-stained cabinetry and shiny steel appliances.

"What?" I muttered, my voice altered by my jaw slack against stone. "How the hell?"

Another round of tapping forced my head up. At once, I realized the sound actually _was_ real and _was _someone at the side door.

"Just a minute," I yelled, as my brain tried to process who could possibly be visiting in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. I then questioned just how much bullshit Mrs. Cope dealt with on a daily basis.

Without thinking, I threw the door open, not bothering to check first. I assumed it would just be some random kid selling magazines or perhaps some traveling bible-thumper. It was neither. Instead, I found myself looking down the steps at a pile of dark brown hair.

"Ms. Swan?"

Her head tilted up, and her expression confused the hell out of me. She looked hesitant or unsure, and she had something wrapped up in a brown paper bag held in her hands.

"Edward," she replied, her voice echoing her expression. "I, well, Mrs. Cope mentioned to me that you don't really cook. And I imagined that by now, you would have gone through the frozen meals she probably prepared."

I had no doubt that my eyes were boggled out of my head. _What the hell._ This was intolerable.

"_And_ I wanted to say thank you for rescuing me earlier this afternoon," she added with a hint of a blush.

_Absolutely intolerable. Who the hell does she think she is? _I grated as I processed her initial words.

"Ah, Ms-, _Be-lla_, that's not necessary. At all. I assure you I'm just fine. But thank you for the gesture." I hoped she would get my intentionally obvious hint and baleful stare and depart for whence she came.

But no. My luck would have none of that. Her eyes narrowed, her irises almost black, almost matching the shade of her pullover – dry, thank God. Whether I'd incurred her ire by exaggerating her name in mockery or by refusing her overture, I could not tell. She snapped, looking past me and into the kitchen, "Did you burn something, Edward?"

"That's not any of your concern. Again, thank you, but no thank you."

She threw her free arm up, aggravated. "You are just impossible. What's your deal? It's not like _I'm _asking _you_ for anything. Mrs. Cope asked me to check on you while she's gone. For some reason, that woman worries about you. I can't for the life of me figure out why she cares, though. But I like her. So I'm here, okay?"

A brilliant red crept up her skin as she continued, "And I thought you might like some lasagna or something. I'm not a great cook, but I'm okay. But apparently, from the stench rolling out the door, I can, at least, fry eggs better than you."

That was the most I'd heard this woman speak since she arrived. And I'd obviously offended her, with very little effort on my part. I wanted to reply to so many of the things she said, but my tongue wouldn't budge, so I just continued to glare at her, hoping she'd get the hint and leave. When she didn't, instead scowling back at me with one small hand on her hip, my jaw locked, and I could feel my teeth grinding. Stiffly, I opened the door wider and stepped out of the way.

As she walked past, I caught a whiff of the same perfume that had saturated my car, but stronger. "Just put it over there," I huffed, motioning to the counter.

"Did you eat already?" she asked, her voice inexplicably softening.

I wanted to slap myself. I wondered just how much Mrs. Cope had told my new neighbor.

"Yes," I lied.

"Liar," she chuckled.

The change in her demeanor was startling, flipping so fast that I couldn't keep up. This woman left me reeling. "I'm just fine," I managed.

"Where are your plates?" she asked, ignoring me and opening a cabinet door.

My eyes widened in disbelief. "I said, 'I'm fine'. Or did you not hear that?" I queried, the heat rising with each passing second.

Bella spun on her heel, the rubber sole of her tennis shoe squeaking against the tile, and faced me, thoroughly pissed off. Again. "Look. Humor me. Where are your plates?"

"I don't have time for this nonsense," I snapped.

"Christ, can you act like a decent person for one minute? As soon as I put this on a plate in front of you, I can leave. Then, I can answer honestly when Mrs. Cope calls. Because she will, _Ed-ward_. And she doesn't need any more stress than she already has. She's too nice for that."

_Just unbelievable! This, this woman is infuriating! _

"Left upper, on the other side of the sink," I spat as I tugged at my hair in frustration. Never, ever, had I had to deal with someone so thoroughly obnoxious. Were she male, I'd have thrown her out physically.

"Go sit down," she ordered.

"No," I argued. I felt like a petulant child.

"Whatever. You can eat standing up if that's what you really want."

I swore that I could hear her eyes rolling. Puttering around in the kitchen, seemingly at such ease, she reminded me so much of Maria. She was so commandeering, so expectant. It must have been that, that tone of expectation, coupled with the flashback I'd experienced minutes before she arrived, which drove me to obey her and sit behind the bar.

Less than a minute later, Bella placed a plate in front of me, piled high with steaming lasagna. And fuck if it didn't smell delicious. My traitor stomach betrayed me and rumbled. I glanced up prepared to comment, but when I met her eyes, they were again soft, and I didn't have it in me to speak.

"Okay," she said quietly. "I've done my job. I'll leave you and your sad state."

And like that, I felt like a heel, like a regular jackass. Damn her to hell. "Um, you can stay and eat, too. If you want. I don't care," I mumbled, looking down at the speckled counter, not believing what was coming out of my mouth.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather eat alone?" she asked. She was actually asking; I could hear the real question in her voice, the lack of sarcasm.

I sighed loudly, not wanting to admit anything to this wretched woman. "Just stay and eat for fuck's sake."

"What a glowing invitation," she snorted. "But I'll take it. I haven't eaten either."

After ten minutes of silent but not entirely uncomfortable eating, I risked a glance up. She was staring off and out the window, unaware of my observation. In stillness, she was a graceful woman, and I'd yet to believe her age. Her skin was too smooth, too fine to be from a state like Arizona, where the sun shone daily and temperatures climbed to one-hundred plus regularly.

There were faint bruises under her eyes, likely from the same affliction I bore. And now that I really paid attention, with her shoulders curved inward, she looked so slender, almost frail. She looked haunted. I wondered how much of her character was put on and how much was real.

"This isn't that bad," I commented, attempting polite conversation. Hesitantly, I added a quick, "Thanks."

Her head swiveled back to my direction and a small smile ghosted across her lips. "Told you that I'm not a great cook. But it will do. Better than frozen anyway."

"No, it's fine. Good actually," I reluctantly pushed back. Because it was. While her cooking was nowhere close to Mrs. Cope's, it was infinitely better than what I could accomplish. And as much as I hated admitting it, sitting beside her, being in her presence, wasn't too terrible. Despite the unfamiliar feeling of having to be _on_, or like I was giving some kind of performance, sitting beside someone and eating a meal felt vaguely _normal._

When she didn't respond, I floundered, trying to find some appropriate subject matter. I could be cordial, civil, especially since she'd gone to the trouble to bring me the damned food. But instead of starting with some safe, inane topic, my mouth invariably went on without my brain. "So, you don't work?"

_Jesus, Edward. _

Before I had the chance to regret my words, she merely smiled wider, saving me from embarrassment. "I did. And well, I will again come fall."

Confused, my brow cocked, and my goddamned curiosity exploded. "Fall?" I pressed lightly, hoping that I sounded nonchalant.

"I teach," she chuckled. When she met my baffled stare, her teeth nervously worried her bottom lip. I couldn't for the life of me understand her apprehension but the action, admittedly, did strange and uncomfortable things to my body. Things I needed to ignore.

But I could not imagine this woman in a classroom. She didn't fit any image I had of a school teacher. Maybe she could tackle high school. Certainly not younger children; it just didn't fit for some reason. "Really? What grade level?"

Her lips twitched and her eyes glittered in amusement. "Oh, no! I couldn't handle kids if that's what you're thinking," she laughed. "College."

_College?_ my mind spun, trying to piece together what I knew about this woman. Why this surprised me, I didn't know. She didn't look old enough; hell, she wasn't old enough. "Doctorate? In what?" I queried, no chance of disguising my curiosity.

"No, I just have a Masters. I-, I was a year or two away from completing my PhD. But I had to quit. So, back in Arizona, I lectured at a local community college. While they prefer and usually hire PhDs, they needed people, and the Dean knew that I was more than familiar enough with the material to lecture. Just freshmen and sophomore level literature, nothing major."

"So, you'll do that here? Where?" I heard myself ask.

"Peninsula College. I've put in an application, and the hiring committee seemed to be impressed. I think they'll hire me. It helps that, minus the doctorate, I'm cheaper. I'll find out in a week or two."

My forehead creased. "So, you are going to drive from here to Port Angeles every day? That's more than an hour."

"No, there is the Forks, or West End, extension. They want to add a few more offerings to what they do now. I'd handle all their English and literature coursework. And if that's not enough for full-time, I'd drive to Port Angeles a couple of days per week. Or even do an online course or two."

"Why exactly did you move here?" I suddenly blurted.

Where I expected another smirk or snarky comment, I was instead greeted by a stricken expression, one that mimicked grief, one that made my stomach curl. Her brows knitted together and her eyes dropped to the table. In my periphery, I could see her small hand fisting her napkin. Immediately I regretted my query, understanding that this topic was off limits, that I'd overstepped.

"Another time, Edward," she exhaled, as she rose. "Maybe later. But I need to get going. I've taken more than enough of your time.

"And thanks for inviting me to stay. I'll be sure to tell Mrs. Cope that you're well fed." She turned and her lips pursed, as if she were debating on whether or not to say something. After a brief pause, with a forced grin and forced tone, she joked, "Give me a ring if you burn your eggs again."

I was completely floored by her reaction to my question. Her expression had been as clear as if I'd looked at myself in the mirror. By the time I found my ability to speak again, she'd loaded the plates in the dishwasher and sped out the door. And I was left wondering what the fuck had just happened.

.

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Sister_, by the Nixons


	9. Can You Help Me Remember How to Smile

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you to BilliCullen, NEW AUTHOR of _Clean Up on Aisle Five_, for the always awesome pre-reading. Beta-lady and fic-wife, Scooterstale, has returned to the world of the damned (by that, I mean the world of the working / non-vacationing sort). Thank you for fixing everything and making it better.  
**

* * *

**_Can You Help Me Remember How to Smile_**

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For the remainder of the week, I went about my normal business, ignoring, for the most part, all else. I quickly learned that work, without the assistance of Mrs. Cope, was a nightmare. That woman deserved not only a raise, but elevation to sainthood. After spending two hours on the phone wrangling through yet another delivery debacle – this time, an antique roadster delivered to the wrong fucking state – I was almost to the point of boiling over. By two in the afternoon, I was unsuccessfully fighting the urge to throw things.

In an effort to preserve the condition of my desk and office, as well as my own sanity, I opted to defer the remainder of my calls until later. _Potentially, much later_, I amended, thinking of the incompetence of my Mid-west supplier. Where Jenks had driven me to curse and spit, this man, I wanted to reach through the phone line and strangle.

For the life of me, I could not understand the number of telephone calls I – or, more so, the business – received each day, how many idiotic solicitations and queries. Again, these were all things that Mrs. Cope dealt with completely behind the scenes and unbeknownst to me. Admittedly, a not small part of me wished I'd taken her up on her offer to find me a temp in her absence. But in the same breath, I knew that handling anyone else would be a disaster, for the temp and for myself.

Dealing with Ms. Swan – or Bella, as she demanded to be called – was taxing enough. I hadn't seen the woman since she'd run out of my kitchen, wearing an expression that still hadn't left me. The lack of contact was both a blessing and an irritation. I wanted nothing to do with her yet I did, and it confused the hell out me. Bella was different, new, a break from the norm, and on top of that, I knew next to nothing about her. She didn't behave as did normal people around me, and I wasn't quite sure how to reconcile that. She was fascinating, a puzzle perhaps. Thus, my brain was unconsciously drawn to her. Considering how my life was nothing but a gray repeat of the same day over and over, it wasn't so surprising that even a small shift in my sphere caught my attention. As such, there was a certain appeal there. No doubt, however, that she'd had her fill of me, and likely I'd not hear from her again until she needed something with the house. And that was just fine; all the better, if I were being honest.

I ventured downstairs and wandered into the kitchen. Not surprisingly, before I even had the refrigerator door open, I heard the rattling buzz of my cell vibrating against the countertop. Exasperated, my palms flew to my face and furiously scrubbed.

"Seriously? Who the fuck?" I ground out between clenched teeth as I grabbed for the offending noise.

_E. Cullen._

_No._

"Could he have any better timing?" I grumbled, vowing to ignore the call per my usual and let it go to voicemail. Dealing with Emmett's bullshit wasn't anything I was inclined to do today.

But of course, he didn't leave a voicemail. He just called again. And then again until I'd had enough.

"What is it, Emmett?" I finally answered after three consecutive calls.

He replied with his typical jovial banter, though even I could tell that his voice was laced with a tinge of annoyance. "About time, Edward. Nice to speak with you, too."

"Yeah, okay. What's wrong?"

"Can I not just call my brother to see what he's up to?"

I suppressed a sigh, but my fingers involuntarily started drumming a tight, fast rhythm across the counter. "Sure. Fine. How are you, Emmett?"

"Well, since you asked, I'm doing well. Rose and I are actually in town," he said, the smile on his face evident even through the phone.

_Shit. _

"Why?" I responded stiffly, knowing exactly what was coming.

"We're probably going to buy the old Crowley place across town. Tyler's granddad died a few months ago and they're anxious to get the place off their hands. Needs some updating, but it's a good location - close to the middle of town and all. And it has a big enough yard for whenever the baby gets old enough to need it."

"Right. I suppose I'm happy for you then. Should I say my congratulations now? Or later?" I said, hoping to hide my true feelings on the matter. Since our last conversation, I'd managed to forget, or at least ignore his intention to move back. But now they'd found a house, and as such, that was a hell of a lot more than just an intention. Now I had to face the very real and probable fact that more often than I'd like, I'd have to deal with my family in person rather than via phone.

"We were actually hoping to drop by? Maybe even bring some take-out or something and have dinner? Mom said that Mrs. Cope was out on leave."

_Goddamnit, no. _

"I, that's not a good idea, Emmett. I'm swamped with work. Maybe next time."

The inflection in Emmett's voice changed. I wasn't sure if I'd finally offended him with my curtness or if it was something else. "Look, Edward. We're going to drop by. We're going to say 'hello'. It's what families do. I get that you don't really want to see me, but I'll be damned if you are going to be a dick to Rose. You are going to be an uncle at some point in the near future. We won't stay long or disrupt your precious time and space, but we're going to stop by."

I glanced around the kitchen, looking past the doorway and into the living room. It was a mess; scattered everywhere, there were stacks of wrinkled newspapers, empty containers, and more than a respectable number of empty glass bottles. Again, something I'd taken for granted with Mrs. Cope around. I did not need Emmett and Rosalie, and thus the entire fucking family thinking I needed any more of their intervention or involvement.

"Fucking hell, Emmett. If you're going to be such a persistent ass, how about I just meet you somewhere instead?"

"Really?" he asked, seemingly disbelieving that I'd volunteer to leave the house. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, fine. Just tell me where, and I'll be there or whatever. Will that work?"

"Absolutely." He actually sounded excited, happy even, which made me feel like more of a jackass than ever. I knew that I did everything I possibly could to push them away. So how was it that just agreeing to eat a fucking hotdog or hamburger at a shitty small town restaurant could elicit such a reaction?

"How about the Diner at six-thirty?"

"Six-thirty. Okay, I'll be there," I sighed.

~.~.~

At six-thirty seven, I pulled into the last open space in the graveled lot of the Forks Diner. It was an old place, probably the oldest restaurant on the entire Peninsula. In some form or another, it'd been around almost since the founding of the town. The current incarnation, a small one-storey clap-board with wall-length front windows, dated back to the late nineteen-seventies or early nineteen-eighties. The décor reminded me of my youth, complete with wood paneling and brightly colored Formica counters. Despite appearances, however, even I had to admit, the food was probably the best around. Even out in the parking lot, it smelled good.

Walking in, I shoved my hands in my pockets and glanced up to the sky. Gray had returned; the clouds were heavy and dark, billowing and threatening rain yet again. I predicted that I had maybe an hour at most before I'd be driving home through another downpour.

The jingle of the door announced my presence, and like in any small town, the moment a door opened, all eyes swiveled to appraise the newcomer. As it had been in the grocery store – albeit there, the reactions were better disguised – it was perfectly obvious that I was the last person most of the patrons had expected to see. A brief hush settled over the room, and I tried to not glare at the open-mouthed staring. Inwardly, I just sighed. Considering my rare appearances in town, their ogling was at least partly justified.

Not particularly wanting to be the center of attention, I quickly scanned the room, searching for Emmett. Thankfully, with his large, bulky frame and overly enthusiastic smile, he wasn't hard to find. Mentally, I'd prepared myself for his annoyingly cheerful questioning and chatter. As per his usual, I knew he would spend the next hour doing his damnedest to act like we were best friends and both happy to be there. And I knew that I was expected to be on my best behavior for his new fiancée.

What I wasn't expecting, however, was to see another person in the bench across from them.

_This can't be happening! Fuck my life_, I groaned as I approached their table. _How the fuck?_

"Emmett," I greeted shortly. "Rosalie."

Emmett detected none of my irritation. Or he did a superb job in hiding that he did. "Edward! Hey, man. I'm glad you could make it. Do you kno-,"

"Ms. Swan," I interrupted, looking down at the dark haired woman opposite my brother. It threw me for a moment when I noticed that her hair was uncharacteristically down and lightly styled. Even in my fleeting assessment, I could see a dozen shades of chestnut interspersed with lighter caramels and a deep reddish color to which I couldn't put a name. It framed her face… _nicely_.

My gaze trailed down to the rounded collar of her almost-midnight blue blouse. Her skin was flawless and so pale against that particular color, like porcelain. And she wore just a touch of make-up – nothing over-done, just… _accentuating_. It was odd seeing her there, looking like that. Put together and less casual.

Before I could give myself away, I quickly looked from her to Emmett. With a disinterested wave and disinterested tone, I clarified, "Yes, you could say we know each other. We're neighbors." I really had no inclination to share with my brother that I'd had any interaction with her beyond that of lessor and lessee.

"Edward," Bella answered with a small smile, garnering confused as hell expressions from both Rosalie and Emmett, likely due to her polite usage of my first name. Turning to Rosalie, she expanded with slight shake of her head. "Not exactly neighbors. I rent his white house."

"I wasn't aware that you would be joining us," I replied curtly, managing to ignore the quiet choking sound coming from my brother.

"Oh, God, no. I was just stopping by to grab a bite, and I just happened to see Rose," she laughed.

And then she smirked that goddamned smirk of hers, the one that drove me to the point of pulling my hair out, the one that said, 'There's more here but I'm not saying.'

_Of course. Yes. That just makes a fuckload of sense. You would just happen to know my future sister-in-law. Why didn't I guess that?_

"Really? I didn't know you knew each other," I hedged, trying to keep the biting sarcasm, as well as the raging curiosity, out of my tenor. Annoyed to no end, I realized that apparently, going a few days without seeing the wretched woman had no influence whatsoever on my nosiness.

Emmett cleared his throat, breaking my inquisition, and said, "Edward, are you going to sit down, or what?"

"Wait, just let me slide out," Bella interjected quickly, already moving to vacate the bench. "I have to run."

_Yes, thank you_, I wanted to add.

Before she could get up, Rosalie reached across the table, placing her palm across Bella's forearm to halt her. "No, please stay, Bella? Come on, it's no fun eating alone."

Warily, almost as if she were asking permission, Bella looked up to me again, her russet eyes depthless. There was that frailty there again, something just below the surface of her confident façade. It was the same expression I'd observed when she sat in my kitchen days before.

And just as before, the changes in this woman's expressions were purely baffling. One minute, she would be feisty and mocking, and then the next, she'd be demure and almost shy. And that fucking blush was mind-boggling. I still had no idea what to make of it.

From the warning looks Emmett was throwing my way, I knew what was expected of me. Were there not a crowd, one that still seemed to be staring at my rarely-seen self like I was some oddity or circus act, I'd have either left myself or just let her leave as she'd intended.

Noting my surroundings and company, I rationalized that my evening was wrecked anyway. "Yeah, fine. Stay," I huffed, sitting down beside her, effectively blocking her exit.

"If you're sure. I don't want to intrude," she murmured, almost as if for my ears alone.

"Just sit, Bella."

The one positive about the whole experience was that with a third party present, Emmett couldn't grill me on his usual topics. And granted, the stupid part of me took some measure of satisfaction that through Emmett's, and especially Rosalie's, questions and conversation, a few more of my own questions were answered about my enigma of a tenant.

When I asked again how she knew Rosalie, Bella smiled. But before she could answer, Rosalie chimed in, first answering me and then continuing to Bella. "Oh, she's going to be working for us at the college this fall. Although, Bella, I do wish you'd consider the Port Angeles main campus. There's only a handful of courses here in Forks. You'll be bored."

I hadn't known that Rosalie also worked at the college. Or more likely, I recognized, I'd been told but had simply forgotten. When Emmett and Rosalie started dating, I hadn't been at my most coherent. In fact, I barely remembered most of that year.

"We'll see," Bella interjected lightly, picking through the salad she'd ordered. "They haven't called me yet. Who knows, maybe I'll see if the library needs any help."

Turning to me, she explained. "Rose was my host for my interview. I didn't realize until just a few minutes ago you were, or rather will be, related."

"Trust me," Rosalie answered, rolling her eyes. "I work for the Dean. I see all the applicants that come across. You're a shoe-in. They've been looking for months. Do you know how hard it is to get people to move out here? And plus, you have the experience. And the recommendations."

"We'll see," she offered with a shrug.

For the most part, I was able to eat my hamburger and fries and not speak. Only occasionally did I have to answer a random question about how my business was going, if I'd be driving into Seattle for dad's birthday in August, how Mrs. Cope was faring. When I quietly shared that Gerald would be spending the next few weeks in the hospital, a worried crease appeared in Bella's forehead.

"So, Bella," Emmett started after a long pause. "Why in the hell are you living so far out of town? I mean, you don't know anyone here, right? Wouldn't you prefer to live where there are actual people? Or at least people that you could interact with?"

While a part of me took exception to Emmett's slight, I'd wondered the same thing myself more times than I cared to admit. Not wanting to reveal my interest, I focused all my attention on the sandwich in my hands.

In my periphery, I saw Bella's head tilt down. Softly, she answered, "No, I like it out there. It's quiet. Garrett has a yard to run around in, and I don't know, I like older houses."

That wasn't the whole story. I knew that as plainly as if I'd spoken the words myself. Yet what the rest of it was, I didn't know.

"Garrett?" Rosalie asked, puzzled. "You have a son? Is he with a sitter?"

At Rosalie's query, Bella's head lifted and she laughed a full, throaty laugh, one like I'd heard when she'd been talking to Jacob Black. "Christ, no! Garrett's my dog! He's a Lab mix and likes to run."

"Oh," Rosalie replied.

"So, you aren't married? No kids?" Emmett asked. I knew what he was up to and I kicked him hard under the table. He was forever trying to locate distractions for me. Emmett was under the mistaken assumption that if I were to date again, I'd magically be 'all better.'

As quickly as it'd come on, the laughter stopped. Almost in a whisper, she responded, "No, not anymore. I'm actually just recently divorced. James, my ex, is still in Arizona. And no, I don't have any children."

When I looked down, I could see that the color had drained from her face. Her lips were pursed into a forced smile, the same one she'd put on when I'd asked her the same questions. Her eyes were dark and troubled, as if she were remembering something unpleasant. Something _had_ happened to this woman. Everything about her screamed it. And I couldn't help but feel just a slight bit of kinship.

Rosalie, fortunately, noticed the same reaction I did and steered the conversation away to less risky topics. For more than an hour, we sat and… chatted. It'd been a long time since I'd spent that much time in my brother's presence. But as soon as I counted the evening as a success, he had to ruin it.

"Mom wanted me to ask if you'd drive in for the Fourth. I think she's wanting to throw a big party or something. And she'd really like to see you, Ed. She misses you like crazy and it hurt her that she didn't see you at the cemetery."

My brows furrowed, irritated that I couldn't go two hours without being reminded of my failure as a son, brother, and person in general. "No, Emmett. You know I don't do those shindigs of hers. I have no desire to sit there all night and watch mom and dad entertain one hundred of their closest friends. You know I don't put on a good show. You don't want me there."

"Edward, come on. You haven't seen mom or dad in months," he pressed. "Don't be so selfish."

"How many times do I have to say it? No," I answered.

"Jacob!" I heard Bella call out over my shoulder. While I was certainly thankful for the interruption, I was not pleased with the cause. Following her line of sight, I saw the tall, lean form of Jacob Black decorating the doorframe. He was wearing the same cocky grin he always wore, and his eyes were alight with mischief.

"Bella! Hey!" he returned, sauntering over to the table. "Cullen? Emmett. And I don't think I know? Is this Rosalie?"

"Jake, how are you?" Emmett answered jovially, extending his hand out in greeting, completely unaware of my glaring.

Jacob laughed a deep bass. "Aw, man, just fine. Dad's killing me with all the work." He looked over to Bella and continued, "Speaking of work, hey, Bella, when did you want me to come over to finish that upstairs room?"

My head jerked to the right, waiting for her answer. _Room? What the hell is he talking about?_

"How about tomorrow night? Just whenever you get off work and it's convenient. I'll make you a sandwich. How's that?" she replied excitedly.

"Room?" I asked quietly, unable to prevent the incredulous climb of my brows.

.

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**Chapter title:** lyrics from _Runaway Train_, by Soul Asylum


	10. She Cut Me Right Back Down to Size

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen, for pre-reading and persistent reassurance (because I kinda freak out a little sometimes… most times). And thank you to infinity and beyond, Scooterstale, for fixing up my angst (despite your genre-reticence).

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_**She Cut Me Right Back Down to Size**_

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"Don't you dare give me shit, _Edward_ Cullen," Bella snapped, as I stared incredulously at the half-painted toffee-colored walls of the empty living room.

"I never signed anything allowing this, Ms. Swan," I snapped back, seething and wildly waving my hand at the walls. My blood pressure was through the roof, having had a solid fifteen minutes of drive time to build. "You just presume to do whatever you damn well please, don't you? That's it, isn't it?"

Bella rolled her eyes and huffed, interrupting my assault. "No, you didn't sign a damn thing – apparently you were _busy_ up in that office of yours. No, you weren't around to sign, but Mrs. Cope sure did on your behalf. Check your paperwork. And you ought to listen to yourself for once. I don't think you need to _presume_ that you know anything about me," she growled, crossing her slender arms across her chest. Her eyes flashed me a look that blatantly said 'fuck you, asshole.'

"Oh, fucking Christ! You are so damned difficult!" I yelled, my fingers darting up to my scalp.

"Why are you so pissed off?" Bella asked, a deep crimson – this time, surely from anger – rising up her neck to her face. Her cheeks puffed out as she argued, "What the hell is the big deal? You can see I haven't done a thing to your precious new carpet. And just like I noted on my paperwork, when I leave, I will repaint the place that boring-ass apartment beige it came with. So explain yourself, Edward Cullen. What is your problem?"

Her question was valid. Very valid and very unexpected, and the heat in her demand disarmed me completely, obliterating my own rage. If I were being honest with both her and myself, I didn't know the answer. The moment I'd seen Jacob Black at the diner my irritation had spiked and then just grew from there. I couldn't rightfully explain my reaction. _Was_ it because she asked that damned Black kid to help her? Or was it that she didn't ask me at all? I had no clue. _Why do I give a shit if the walls were blue, beige, red or fucking purple, for that matter? I don't live here_. And true to her word, there wasn't a spot on the carpet.

And fucking hell if it didn't look better. A lot better. The house looked like a _home_. This woman was turning my goddamned piece of shit rental into a home, something worth living in. And I couldn't comprehend why she cared, why she bothered. Something about it, however, about seeing the walls coming to life, about seeing signs of warmth and color, inexplicably made my chest ache. I didn't understand it, what or from where this throbbing stemmed. But it felt like someone had just punched me in the sternum, and my empty cavity of a body was swelling and ballooning against its frame. Suddenly, my eyes stung, and it was as though I were on the verge of tears, like I was some damned emotional junkie about to lose his composure. And that, my ludicrous reaction, just pissed me off even more. But there was no way in hell that I'd allow this woman to see anything of the sort from me.

Roughly, I dry washed my face and tried to focus on something else, anything other than this inane fucking question that I couldn't seem to answer, trying to push away the discomfort and frustrating confusion. But my efforts were to no avail; my chest still felt tight, wound up, and my jaw flexed, holding back God only knew what kind of emotional outburst. When it came to interacting with this woman, I had complete and utter mistrust in my body. All I could manage was to stand there and stare at anything but her, trying to figure out what to say and what to do.

But after a long moment of finding no answers and no reprieve, I sighed, deflated, tired, and unwilling to continue. I just wanted to go home and drink myself into a mindless stupor so that I could forget all of these nonsensical feelings. _God, I hate 'feelings'_, I groaned silently. I wanted numb. While numb certainly wasn't happy, it was painless. It was safe and it was something I knew.

Glancing away, in a quiet, resigned voice, one that contrasted sharply with the heated ire I'd just inflicted upon her, I simply and honestly admitted, "I don't know. I don't. Just… whatever, do whatever you want. I don't care."

_You win_, I thought, my eyes involuntarily sliding shut as my forefinger and thumb pinched and massaged the bridge of my nose, attempting to divert the oncoming raging headache. Exhausted to the point of delirium, I just didn't have it in me to argue, or to talk, or to explain. I didn't fucking care about paint. I didn't care about forms or signatures or carpet or any of it. I didn't care about whatever foolish thing it was in my head that made me boil over in the first place. _I give up._

As I moved to turn away, to exit her _home_, to run away and hide in my own personal prison, I felt a slight pressure on my upper arm, gently holding me in place and preventing my retreat. It was unexpected and my body reacted with a surprised shudder. The pressure felt foreign, but warm and soft. And there was something else there, some indescribable sensation that coursed into my body, something that made my words thicken in my throat but somehow made the tightness in my chest infinitesimally relent. "Wait," Bella murmured, her voice lowering and softening. "I should have mentioned it to you. I just assumed that you'd have seen the forms and talked to Mrs. Cope. I apologize. It's your property. I can change it back if you'd prefer."

I stared down at where her hand rested lightly against the fabric of my shirt, where I could feel the warmth from her body radiating into mine. When my eyes trailed across to meet hers, for split second, the air seemed to heat and crackle. It wasn't unlike the electric sizzle in the air during a summer lightning storm. In that short second, it was as if I couldn't catch my breath, like my heart was racing, like I'd just run a marathon. It was confusing and frightening, but I didn't want her hand to leave. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognized that this was the first time in years that someone other than a blood relative had willingly touched me. No one else would dare get close enough; I'd more than effectively scared them away.

I wasn't sure how much time passed, how long we stood there speechless, staring, and connected by nothing more than her hand on my bicep. Though physically connected, I felt adrift, as though I were lost in a sea of flickering, disjointed thoughts and alien sensations. She made no move to release me; from what I could see, Bella seemed equally stunned. Her eyes, a dark liquid chestnut, were wide and surprised, and her lips, full and pale pink, were slightly parted. The deep scarlet of her angered blush faded to a light dusting, just enough color to highlight and offset the cream of her complexion. I wasn't sure what held me more, the strange feeling of her hand on my body or the look on her face.

When my mouth finally moved to speak, my voice sounded strangled. "Why do you care about this place? Why bother?"

Her gaze dropped and her brow creased. I wondered if she would answer; she seemed reticent and uncomfortable with my prodding. Curiously, I watched her chest expand with the deep breath she took, almost as if she were steadying herself to respond. Whispering, she answered, "When I was a child, I used to live here. Or rather, my father did and I visited sometimes in the summer. This is the closest thing to a home I have left. I, just-, I wanted to feel close to something."

_Wait. _

_No. _

_What?_

Mouth agape, I stuttered out what I thought vaguely sounded like a request for her to repeat her statement.

"Yeah," she affirmed with a small, sad smile, finally releasing my arm. "I was young, just after my mother and father divorced. During the school year, I lived with my step-sister and mother in Arizona, and even in Florida for a while. But during the summers, I'd come up here and stay with my dad.

"When I was a little older, I stupidly decided that Forks was too boring and made my dad meet me places. That was all before he died though, a few years before you and your family moved up here. He died when I was fourteen."

My face surely betrayed my disbelief. "Some guy from out of town owned it when we moved. He just rented it and I never thought anything of it," I mused aloud, damning myself for not having paid attention to the deed records. "But I don't understand. If you wanted to buy the place from me, why didn't you just say so?"

"What would you have said, anyway? And I don't want to buy it. Or well, I don't know if I'd even be up for that. Initially, I said nothing because I wasn't sure if I could handle living here all by myself or even if I'd stay more than a couple of months. Edward, I haven't lived alone in a long time, and if I'm being one hundred percent honest, it wasn't really in my best interest to do so these last couple of years." Glancing around, she waved and added, "This is a test I suppose."

I had no idea what she meant by half of her reply, but the melancholy in her voice and on her face told me to keep those particular questions to myself. So instead, I settled for addressing her very last admission. "Are you passing?" I asked lightly, only partially understanding what I was asking and feeling very uncomfortable with where this new information and sharing put us.

"I think so," Bella replied softly, gazing out through the window across the green expanse of her back yard. When she caught sight of a furry, black animal wagging its tail and looking upward, a faint smile spread across her lips.

I looked around the room, noting the place was still only partially furnished. She was waiting, buying for the rooms as she prepared them. That first delivery had probably just been the necessities. But even minus furnishings, her space looked warm and inviting. It matched her. It fit her style – effortless, casual, yet timeless. Beyond the empty living room, in the already completed dining room, I could see a dark cherry wood table with matching chairs, all clean, solid lines. Bold prints, with deep reds and dark greens, hung against the taupe walls. If I were not looking, I'd have missed the fact that there were no photographs.

"So this is what you do at night? Paint?" I asked, now wholly curious. I wanted to know just how much of this she'd done and how much had been completed by way of the assistance of Jacob Black. I could not put my finger on why I cared, but I did. I didn't like the idea of him here. For some reason, I just… didn't like it.

Her head swiveled back to face me, her hair whipping from the sudden movement and sending a wave of light floral perfume across my skin. "How did you know?"

"What? That you are painting? Uh, Bella, I think that's pretty fucking obvious," I chuckled, sniffing exaggeratedly at the noticeable smell of latex in the room.

"No, you asked if I did this at night. Why would you ask that?" Her tone was laced with accusation.

_Fuck. _

A new, unfamiliar feeling swelled in the pit of my stomach, a sickening feeling akin to nausea. Not comprehending, my brain flipped through an array of emotions I hadn't felt in years, trying to pinpoint the name of what exactly I was feeling. It settled on nervousness. I was _nervous_. I was nervous because I'd essentially outted myself and not even realized it until she'd called me out for it. While my late night behavior hadn't seemed _off_ to me at the time, I supposed that the average female would be none too pleased to learn of a random male neighbor routinely sitting out on his porch at two o'clock in the morning watching the lights of her windows.

_Nervously_, I stammered, "I don't really sleep so well either. I, well, I keep odd hours and sometimes I see your lights on."

Fortunately for me, that seemed to satisfy her. Before I could recover from that round, however, Bella stunned the hell out of me again. Her mouth transformed into a mischievous smile, one that both baffled me and simultaneously made me want to smile in return - like perhaps I could be in on whatever secret made her giggle, too. Clearly amused with herself, she asked innocently, "Do you paint?"

"What?" I fumbled, not immediately following. Then again, every single time I was in this woman's presence, I felt like my brain wasn't functioning properly, like it couldn't comprehend the most basic of concepts. It was as though I existed in a perpetual state of stupid where she was concerned.

Bella just rolled her eyes and repeated herself, enunciating as if she were speaking to a child. "Well, it's your house after all. And you just said you're up at all hours like me. I'm asking if you want to help me paint."

_No, _I wanted to say, but didn't. At some time, somewhere in our discussion since leaving that diner, _something_ had changed in our dynamic. What that something was or to what it had changed, I hadn't determined. I wanted to say no, but I also wanted to say yes. Maybe my loneliness had finally won; perhaps I wanted some human companionship in the early hours of the morning, something other than a bottle of scotch with which to converse. Or maybe I wanted to feel useful for once rather than being the dragging weight on everyone around me. Or maybe my mind couldn't resist the allure of solving the puzzle of her. Some small part of me admitted that this woman wasn't so terrible to be around, a hell of a lot better than my family. Maybe I just didn't want Jacob Black finding out what I was only beginning to understand. Possibly, some deep recess in my psyche tugged at her hidden vulnerability. Or probably, it was some fucked up combination of it all.

As if in a barrel, I heard the echo of my voice answer a quiet, "Okay."

~.~.~

_Swish-swish_

_Swish-swish_

Listening to the rhythmic brushing of horsehair against wood almost put me to sleep, almost lulled me toward unconsciousness. There was something about it, the regular pattern, the unthinking motion of my wrist – up and down, dip, up and down again. It was almost soothing. And it allowed me to sink into that comfortable mindless state that can only be reached through mindless activity. For those precious few minutes, I didn't think about why I was here, I didn't think about what had driven me to say yes. I didn't focus on the disconcerting notion that I was renting this house to someone who'd actually lived here before, and that she was fixing what I'd chosen to ignore. Temporarily driven from my mind were those always-present thoughts of self-loathing and antipathy. I thought of nothing but the satin-white evidence of my brush's path along the doorframe.

Outside, it was pitch black; not a hint of moonlight permeated the thick layer of clouds. It was one of those nights when I looked up, there was nothing to see, just endless dark. It was the kind of night that usually left my skin pebbly and left my mind wary, remembering too much. But now, my mind was calm. Because inexplicably, in the space between these walls, there were no traces of night.

It'd been two days since my brain had essentially shut down and given up, effectively ceding control to the dark haired woman to my left. I had arrived on her doorstep at quarter past two, disheveled and not quite convinced that I should be here at all. But sleep had eluded me, leaving me restless and self-destructive, more so than usual. My first inclination, of course, had been to drink myself blind, to force slumber as I always did. But just as I had poured my first glass of scotch, a ghost of a thought made me look up and out through the window, just to see, just in case. Instead of dark windows, my eyes had been met by familiar bright yellow light filtering through the glass, almost as if in beckoning.

It had taken me far longer than it should have to reach her door, but walking down the winding drive, flashlight in hand, I'd changed my mind and turned back almost half a dozen times. I could not reconcile the conflicting emotions; I still had no idea how I truly felt about the woman. For reasons I didn't fully grasp, she drove me insane, but I liked the fact that Bella didn't treat me with kid gloves. She didn't coddle me, she didn't fear me, and she certainly didn't take shit from me. She pressed me to my very limits, but right before I buckled, almost as if she understood, she backed down. And two days ago, _I _had finally understood that being near her made me… _nervous_. For as much as I struggled with myself to admit it, after four years of apathy, anger, and bitterness, _nervous_ was… _pleasant_.

Standing there facing the freshly painted red of her front door, I had fought with myself. I felt idiotic and ridiculous. I couldn't believe that I was actually here – standing outside the home of a woman I couldn't decide if I even liked – willingly volunteering to paint fucking walls at two in the morning. It was beyond absurd, but yet here I was.

I had known she was awake. I could hear music pouring out of the open downstairs windows, and I could see her shadowy shape moving past the backlit glass. I didn't know how to knock, how to say, 'I'm here. Now what?' So, for at least ten minutes, I had stood there dumbly staring at the gleaming brass knocker in the center of the door. About the time my more intelligent half took over and sent me home, the _nervous_ half of me took a deep breath, moved my hand to the door, and gently rapped the brass handle against its base.

Surprisingly, thankfully, she had answered almost immediately, swinging the door wide open and wearing a soft, warm smile. I'd expected her to smirk or to start with some sarcastic quip, something making me feel like the idiot I was. I'd expected her to taunt me and tell me to go the fuck home. But Bella didn't. For a brief moment, with one hand still on the knob of the door, she had eyed me up and down, as if she were cataloguing my unkempt appearance, taking in my wrinkled white t-shirt and wild hair, a product of near-constant unconscious attack. She paused her appraisal, lingering on my face, apparently seeing something. When her eyes met mine, they were depthless, and she wore an expression that I couldn't seem to entirely process – sad empathy or understanding perhaps. Without saying a word, her smile had broadened in welcome and she motioned me in. Three minutes later, we stood, side-by-side, wordlessly coloring her walls and listening to the wailing tenor of an old, sensual, bluesy waltz.

"Favorite color?" Bella asked suddenly, looking up from her roller. There were white and toffee-tinted spots and splatters littering the dark navy of her shirt, some old, ragged thing that at some point had sported the name of some college, the words having long since faded. But despite its wear, against the fabric, the cream of her skin looked like that of a delicate porcelain doll, and my eyes involuntarily traveled along the tattered scoop of the neckline. Even in rags, she was… _distracting_.

Pulled from my unthinking, silent reverie, I stuttered, "What?"

She flashed a grin and dipped her roller in the tray at her feet. "Favorite color? Mine's brown."

Caught off guard by the abruptness of her seemingly casual inquiry, I answered on instinct, purely without thinking. "Blue."

.

.

* * *

**A/N: **That 'wailing tenor' singing that 'sensual, bluesy waltz' was Sam Cooke singing _Summertime_.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Comedown_, by Bush.


	11. Just to Live One Day in Those Shoes

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for making this better.**

* * *

_**Just to Live One Day in Those Shoes**_

* * *

It was almost noon when I finally opened my eyes. The room was bright, well-lit from the midday sun. Directly above my head, streaming sunlight cast a wide, translucent bar of pale, white light, my own personal Jacob's Ladder. My lips twisted up into a small smile as I lifted my hand to touch the thousand sparkling specks of suspended dust and debris. In truth, it was poor testament to my cleaning in Mrs. Cope's absence, but in that moment, it was strangely beautiful and relaxing watching the glittering flecks bounce and dance on unseen currents of air.

For the first time in weeks, I actually felt rested, which in turn surprised the hell out of me, especially considering that I'd been painting walls until six in the morning. For almost four hours, I'd done nothing but mindless, menial labor, and somehow it had quieted my normally restless mind to the point where I'd fallen into deep, dreamless sleep within seconds of collapsing into bed.

Opting for companionable silence, we'd spoken little, instead quietly focusing on coloring brushstrokes and swelling melodies. It wasn't awkward or painful, as I'd assumed it would be; it was almost comfortable being in her presence. Every now and then, Bella would ask me a question, something trivial and light, and I would answer. Sometimes, I politely returned the same question to her, but even when I didn't, instead choosing to return to my task, she didn't seem to mind. She was quiet and she wasn't nosy or prying – characteristics that I appreciated and admired but of course didn't possess myself.

When I departed, there had been no fanfare or discomfited discussion. Bella had merely yawned and scrubbed her face and said that we were done for the night. As I tiredly walked out the door, glancing up and eyeing the pink light of the encroaching dawn, she called after me, "Tomorrow?" With a nod and wave of my hand, I reluctantly spoke my agreement and made my way home.

Being a Sunday, there was little for me to do work-wise. There was invariably paperwork to pore over, but I decided that it could wait. There was also a bit of research I could do; one of my most reliable clients had called on Thursday wanting me to find a specific piece of artwork for him. But even that could wait; I already knew where to look. A day of rest couldn't hurt, I concluded.

It was strange, however, having nothing to do. Downstairs, I flipped on my rarely watched television, only to quickly turn it off again after finding only sermons and reruns of sitcoms that had never interested me in the first place. Realizing that I was running out of clean clothes, I rummaged through the cabinets in the laundry room for detergent and tried to remember how to work the washer.

And then, after fighting with the coffee maker for a solid thirty minutes and ultimately losing, I settled for a soda and a plain sandwich, neither the tastiest nor the healthiest of meals. But it was a lunch that I could manage and not burn. Again, I was struck with a stab of shame over how dependent I'd become without even realizing it. A thirty-two year old man should know how to work his own appliances.

Drifting outside, I mused how quiet it was in my home now. I hadn't really considered it before, but I'd grown accustomed to Mrs. Cope's presence, not just her mothering. She was a constant, always tinkering around in the kitchen, her rubbery orthopedic shoes squeaking on the wood. There were constant sounds with her in the house – water running, doors clicking, soft songs from decades ago crooning through the speakers of her tiny radio. And the house always smelled of freshly made food, linens, and the faint hint of an old woman's musky perfume. It was… homey. I had to admit, in a way, I missed Mrs. Cope's quiet company. I missed the knowledge, that almost imperceptible tingle buried in my subconscious, that I wasn't alone. I assumed that once her husband died – and he would soon, according to his prognosis – she would likely not return, but would instead choose to move to live nearer to her children. Not that I could blame her in any way whatsoever. I hoped that she could find happiness, or at least comfort. Unlike a lot of people, she deserved it.

Thinking of Mrs. Cope's pending loss sent me into a round of introspection of the likes I normally preferred to avoid. I wanted to kick myself for agreeing to help Bella paint again, knowing that I was allowing this woman too much influence over my life, knowing that I had no business becoming any more involved with her than I already was. No good could ever come of it.

I didn't need the distraction and surely, at some point, I'd end up angering her or hurting her in some way. That much was inevitable and unavoidable. I was not good friend material. At some point, I had hurt and ruined everyone and everything with whom I'd ever been close. No matter how much I willed it otherwise, I was a poison to those around me. But I still couldn't explain the draw, and like the selfish idiot that I was, I knew that later tonight, I'd wind up stumbling to her home in the dark against my better judgment.

"Damnable fool," I muttered, cursing myself.

~.~.~

She giggled.

Bella Swan fucking giggled. Because apparently, when I wasn't being a self-absorbed prick, I could be _humorous._

"Edward, what the hell? Are you serious?" she asked, covering her mouth with a tiny, paint-splattered hand. Even from across the room, I could see that her eyes were alight with amusement, almost glittering.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh. Just don't tell him I said anything," I mumbled, trying to keep the corresponding smile off my face. It felt foreign to want to laugh, like my mouth and voice had forgotten how.

"Oh, come on! You can't just spring that on me and then stop!" she pleaded, attempting a solemn expression before failing miserably and bursting into laughter again.

"Emmett will kill me if I say another word," I chuckled, dipping my brush. "But yeah, the entire gym was laughing their asses off, and he was the color of the geraniums on your porch. Dad had to physically pull him off of me that night. But not before he managed to bloody both of my lips and break my nose."

"I can imagine. You deserved it, you know," she sighed, still shaking with silent snickers.

I rolled my eyes and returned to my wall. "Whatever. Hurt like a bitch. Emmett has a right hook that can almost take your head off. Go ahead, laugh at my pain, why don't you."

"So melodramatic," she cooed with feigned sympathy.

"What about you?" I asked hesitantly. "Don't you have any stories from your youth? Or were you a perfect little angel who got along with everyone?"

"Hardly!" Bella scoffed. "My step-sister and I used to get into it all the time. God, we're so different. We used to argue and fight and scream, usually because I wouldn't do what she wanted or wouldn't allow her to humiliate me with her ridiculous fashion choices. She had a thing for neon at one point, by the way – embarrassing to no end. But I never stayed mad at her. Two hours after a blow out, we'd usually end up making up over ice cream and boy-talk.

"She's a lot better now, but she used to be such a control freak, always having to run the show and tell people where to go. It was like we were all her own personal puppets or dolls or something. But God, did we have fun. Alice used to dream up the craziest shit. Which _always_ got us into trouble with Mom."

The wistful tone in her voice was unmistakable. I turned my head so that I could take in her expression. Her eyes were staring off at the far wall, glassy and distant, as though she was seeing something buried in the past. In unconscious motion, a thumb and a forefinger rubbed against each other in small circles. A smile crept up her face, curving her lips upward. I wanted to know more; I wanted to know the reason for that smile.

"Well, why didn't you go live close her? You miss her, right?"

Her head twisted and her eyes met mine. There was a tinge of sadness there that I couldn't place. "I did. For a while, right after I left James. But I didn't want to be dependent on anyone, if that makes any sense. I wanted to stand on my own for a while.

"She's planning to visit, of course. Alice never really met Charlie, so she's never seen Forks. I think she's coming up in August sometime. I think she believes I'm living in a tent out in the wilderness. Or maybe a cave. She goes back and forth." Bella shook her head there at the end, as if in amused disbelief.

"What about your mom? Is she around?" I blurted. It was like the questions wouldn't stop coming out of my mouth. Every answer sparked a dozen more questions.

When she met my stare, the sadness I'd seen a moment before flickered to life again. But there was something else there in the furrow of her brow. There was a hint of anger perhaps. Or maybe disappointment. "Yes and no. To be honest, my mom is a little self-absorbed. I love her, but we don't really understand each other. Renee is working on sealing the deal on husband number three, some guy named Phil. I think he's somehow involved in some minor league baseball team, but I'm not really sure. I've met him only once. He seems okay. I-, we just don't really see eye to eye on things. And she wasn't the most supportive of parents when I really needed her to be."

Bella bent down to pour the residual paint from her tray back into the pail. And like that, I knew that she wasn't planning to elaborate, which was wholly unsatisfying on my part. It wasn't fair – that I would evade any question of hers that dipped too close but still wanted her to bare her soul. It was hypocritical in the extreme, but I didn't care. Bella Swan remained a puzzle, and if anything, the more we interacted, the more confusing she became. But there was some kind of connection there between us, some part of her that some part of me recognized, even though I didn't know how or why or what the fuck to do about it.

I huffed and muttered under my breath, "And you aren't going to say any more about that now, are you?"

She glanced up from the pail, the brown of her eyes turning nearly golden in the light. They were tired and seemed almost ancient, like they had seen and witnessed an age. Bella softly replied, her lips barely moving, "I'd prefer not."

After a brief, uncomfortable lapse into silence, she rose off of her knees and continued in a cheerful voice, one that sounded a little too forced. "But I am hungry. Want something?" I noticed that as she straightened her shirt rode up her torso, pulling my focus from her face. Unconsciously, my gaze centered directly on the exposed swath of creamy white skin and the gentle slope of her hipbone. When burgundy cotton slid down and replaced milk-white, my eyes jerked away and up, but not before my mind registered the heated pang in my lower abdomen.

"Ah, what?" I coughed, trying to hide my embarrassment. I quickly looked down and eyed my paint cup to avoid her speculative expression, thinking that I couldn't bear her judgment. It had been a long time since I'd seen bare skin and even longer since I'd had such a reaction. My mind drifted, sighing in longing, and I had a sudden and very inappropriate urge to know how that skin felt.

"Want something to eat? I have some leftovers and most of a cake," she answered, thankfully ignoring my ogling.

Focusing on the swirl of white paint left by my brush, I swallowed and licked my lips. "Yeah, sure. Cake would be fine."

Five minutes later, Bella slid a slab of chocolate cake in front me, smirking at the way my eyes widened in approval. "You made this?" I asked, dubious.

"God, no," she laughed. "I don't bake anything unless it comes in a box. And even that is sketchy.

"I was in Port Angeles this afternoon looking for some books. Or yesterday, I guess, since it's after midnight. Anyway. A church there was having some Fourth of July charity fundraiser thing. I have no idea what they're actually called. But there was a lady there selling cakes and I couldn't resist."

_Fourth of July. _

_Fuck. _

Again, one more thing for my family to hold over my head.

"Ah, well, it's pretty good," I muttered, already counting the phone calls I'd surely receive later today, all of which would leave me pissed off and feeling more guilty than before.

"You okay?" she asked suddenly. Her head was angled and her fork hovered over her plate, pausing.

"What?"

Her lips pursed together in a crooked half-smile smile, one side puckered, and she stabbed her fork down into her cake. "Will they give you hell about not going to the party?"

_Fucking Christ. She remembers everything_, I silently groaned.

"Probably."

"Why?"

I exhaled loudly, not wanting to go into this at all. "Why what? Why did I not go? Or why will they give me shit?"

Her brows creased and she simply shrugged. "Either. Both, I guess."

"I told Emmett I wouldn't go because I don't like social events or parties or whatever the fuck they are. I think it's pretty fucking clear that I'm not really a good person. Look, I know that I'm a jerk, okay? I just don't really like social scenes anymore. People don't want me there. Trust me. They say they do, but they don't."

I picked at my plate as I continued, more subdued. "My family is going to give me shit because they always do. That's just the way it is. They haven't quite figured out yet that I'm not the son or brother they think I am. Or maybe, more like the one they want me to be. I'm just not him, okay."

Her head tilted opposite and then righted itself. I watched, distracted, as her lopsided half-smile turned into a full on frown. "You're wrong, you know," she said calmly. Her voice held a certain conviction to it, a determination, a surety.

"What are you talking about?" I replied, wishing I could be angry. If anything I merely felt… resigned.

"You said that you aren't a good person," she said carefully. "I don't believe that. Not at all."

_Shut up! Shut up, shut up! _I wanted to scream. My chest took on a new ache, a weight that felt so heavy, so drowning. I wanted to believe her words. No one had said that to me. Ever. No one had ever even hinted at that. And it made no sense coming from Bella. I had been a royal jackass to her. I yelled at her, I mocked her, I treated her like a misogynist asshole. Hell, I'd cursed at her more times than I could count. And she'd only seen the surface of what I was capable of doing.

"You don't know me," I whispered raggedly, staring over her shoulder, unable to look at her. _And you shouldn't want to_, I added mutely.

"I've seen enough to know," she responded in her own quiet whisper. "And don't bother arguing with me and trying to tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. I see you better than you think I do. I see you probably better than you see yourself."

Her words cut through me, leaving me breathless and almost gasping. My chest contracted and expanded, pulsing and throbbing. Her words were a piercing, jagged knife digging into my body, twisting and dragging and ripping my skin apart, and at the same time, a soothing balm, cooling and comforting the very wounds they'd caused. A slight shiver coursed down my spine, down through my legs, and my mouth felt thick and dry.

"Yeah, well-," I hoarsely started, then stopped, not knowing what to say. My lips parted, frozen and dumb, stricken by her open and innocent expression. Her brows were high and her mouth was soft. She believed what she said. Beneath the table, my knee bobbed a fast, anxious rhythm.

"So, cake?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject and freeing me from response.

Nodding, I stuffed my mouth, begging that she wouldn't return to her line of questioning. Because my body and mouth were completely untrustworthy, and I had no idea as to how I'd respond if Bella were to go there.

As we ate in silence, a nervous tension seemed to build in the air, like there was some expectation of me of which I wasn't aware. The hair on my arms stood at attention, and prickling goosebumps rolled along the back of my neck. When I peeked across, I noticed that she was unabashedly staring at me, that speculative expression back in full force.

"So," I stammered, my fingers clawing the napkin in my lap. "You didn't want to watch any fireworks yourself?"

Bella's face transformed, softening and smiling. Quietly, she answered, "Maybe next year."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Be Like That_, by 3 Doors Down


	12. Hang My Head, Drown My Fear

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for making this better.  
**

* * *

_**Hang My Head, Drown My Fear**_

* * *

From the worn, sunken leather of my old chair, I glared at the window. The room behind me was all shadows and bereft of color, save for the single square of darkening gray light streaming in from the window in front of me and the dim sphere of soft yellow from the reading lamp to my left. In the glass, I could see my reflection projected back at me, a dark, brooding image overlaying the lighter scene outside.

My brow was heavy and creased, and in the reflection, my eyes had lost all color, darkening almost to black. Clenching and unclenching, my jaw worked a slow, rolling movement.

I looked… angry. _But then_, I amended sarcastically, _when did I not?_

A dozen curses and epithets were on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out. The heavy binder of invoices in my lap forgotten, my fingers curled around the sides of the armrests, digging into the pebbly hide, as my eyes focused on a single spot in the distance.

Even through the glass and walls, I could hear the deep bark of her dog as it announced the arrival of a white vehicle in her drive. When she walked out to greet him, despite the distance, it wasn't hard to tell that she was pleased to see him. Her gait was spirited and quick.

Rationally, I knew that Bella had befriended Jacob Black. Rationally, I knew that before I started going to her house, he had been helping her with paint and other small fixes. And considering his skill set, it made sense. Rationally, I also suspected that he just wanted a piece of ass. And _rationally_, I knew that I shouldn't give a flying fuck.

But _irrationally_, I did.

Because apparently, it wasn't enough that for the last week and a half, for purely selfish reasons, I'd given over half of my nights to this woman. It wasn't enough that I spent hours each day with her. Because _apparently_, I had _issues_ with others doing the same, especially when _others _included Jacob Black.

When I couldn't sleep, when all I could do was think about mangled cars and misspoken words, it had simply become my new routine to haul myself out the door and walk that third of a mile in the dark to hers just so that I could paint some damn walls and talk about useless shit. Grudgingly, I realized that I actually liked the woman. Or at least I liked her sometimes. Or maybe I just liked having something to do other than sit alone in the dark. _No, you fucking idiot, you do like her. More than you should_, my unspeaking self answered.

We were careful, both of us. After that second night when she had stunned me into silence, we rarely strayed from the safe path of casual, innocuous banter. Last night, for example, while taping off the hallway, we'd had a lengthy and animated discussion about childhood cartoons. From there, we somehow landed on her field of expertise and she lectured me on Lord Byron. We laughed a lot. _I_ fucking _laughed_ with this woman.

A dozen times, I wanted to ask her about Arizona, about her divorce, and about what had happened between her and her mother. I still wanted to know what she'd meant when she had said that up until now, it hadn't been in her best interest to live alone. Since the moment she'd uttered those words, my goddamned curiosity had kept them on repeat, always reminding me of how little I knew of this woman. Bella Swan remained an enigma, only allowing me snippets and hints into her life before Forks.

Somehow, Bella made the passage of time easier for me. As if she understood my need for late night distraction, she asked me about meaningless things, topics that took my mind away from where it always seemed to dwell. I didn't have to remember shit when I was with her. I didn't think about the orchard that I'd allowed to grow over or the house I rarely straightened. I didn't think of all the phone calls I avoided or the hate-filled words I spoke. And even when she delved a little too deeply, I didn't hear accusations or expectations upon which I'd never deliver. There was no judgment or advice. She just asked fucking questions and let me answer. For a few brief hours, she made me feel normal, like my life wasn't in shambles.

But then, last night, or perhaps more accurately, this morning, she'd unexpectedly told me that Jacob would be stopping by again to finish installing the molding in the living room. It caught me off guard; I'd almost forgotten about him until she'd brought him up. Feigning nonchalance, I kept a cool, disinterested façade and shrugged in indifference. Inside, however, some wild, unidentifiable emotion began to build and fester, heating my blood and making my fingers move faster. It was like being repeatedly poked with a hot needle; at first it didn't bother me, just a flash of irritation, but with every stab, that speck of annoyance grew and conformed into something that made me want to hit things.

Now, as I watched him step through her front door, it was something altogether more. I suddenly despised her for making me feel this way, for feeling something so intensely. I despised the fact that I'd allowed this godforsaken woman – a woman I didn't really even fucking know – to dig under my skin and affect me to the point where I'd lost my sense of logic. I hated myself for just plodding along, for not seeing what was happening, for hoping, for thinking that maybe I could have something more. But I didn't deserve something more; I knew that. I'd just wreck it anyway, because that was all I was capable of doing.

"Goddamn you, Bella Swan! What the fuck are you doing to me?" I growled angrily, throwing my binder to the floor and shoving myself out of the chair. Without thinking, I stalked downstairs, immediately targeting the heavy oak cabinet that held the one thing that I knew would calm my nerves and rid me of these stupid fucking feelings.

I slammed the first glass down in a single, gulping shot, relishing the burn as the spicy amber liquid slid down my throat. My chest warmed, and when the heat hit, my stomach shuddered in recognition. I breathed out, my entire mouth igniting in flames, and I could feel the insides of my nostrils singeing. It was like a cleansing fire, and for just a moment, my head thankfully cleared.

The second glass I drank slower, and then, with lumbering, tired steps, I carried the remainder of that bottle plus one more upstairs to my bedroom. Propped up against the headboard of my bed, I sat with my head leaned back, my eyes closed, my fingers soothingly tracing over the soft smoothness of the sheet beneath me. I pushed everything away, focusing solely on the buzzing of my lips and the drowsy heaviness of my body. I was so goddamned tired; all I wanted to do was sleep and not dream. If I could just stay asleep, just stay out of this waking world and not think, I thought that maybe I could be happy for just a few hours.

I was almost there when the old grandfather clock down the hall chimed midnight. Startled, I briefly looked up but all I found was one empty bottle and a second one on its way sitting on the nightstand beside me. When I turned my head, I noted that the room was tilting and spinning slightly. I smiled; I didn't feel a fucking thing.

But my moment of satisfaction was cut short by another sound. A shrill, repeating ring cut through the lazy silence, startling me once again. Desperate to shush the racket, with blurred vision and fumbling fingers, I scrambled for the phone, knocking half the things off the table and onto the floor.

"Hel-lo?" I slurred. Vaguely, I was aware that my pitch was too high.

A woman answered, unsure. "Edward? This is Bella." My body unconsciously reacted to the way her voice wrapped around my name. My breathing picked up and my chest felt lighter, freer.

_Fuck you, body. Fuck you for fucking me over, _I spat silently, willing the reaction away.

"Bel-la! Wha-, To what do I owe the pleasure… at this fine hour?" Swollen from consumption, my tongue felt thick, and my words came out half garbled. I meant to be sarcastic but I merely sounded pathetic.

Through the line, I heard a sharp intake of air. "Edward? Are you drunk?"

_Am I drunk?_ I queried, staring at the way my palm blurred and shook as I turned it over.

"Definitely."

Calmly, she asked, "Are you okay, Edward? Do you need some help?" While there was concern in her voice, it was clear she disapproved. She sounded angry.

_No, I do not need your goddamned help, Bella Swan. _

_And fuck you, too. Serves you right. Time for someone else to be pissed off and disappointed for once_, I thought with a sneer.

"I'm fucking fantastic," I spat acerbically. "But then, why do you give a shit? What the fuck does it matter to you?"

Her voice heated but still remained composed. "I thought you were going to come over tonight. We were going to finish off the baseboards, remember? And Jacob installed the molding today, so I was_ hoping_ that we could start on that. But I guess never mind now."

Suddenly, an old rock song started playing in my head, one that my old roommate from Dartmouth used to blast at all hours of the morning. I laughed bitterly, thinking, 'how appropriate'. In a singsong voice that I could only manage when inebriated, I warbled, "Well…You can't always get what you want!"

For a long, uncomfortable moment, she didn't answer.

"No, Edward, you can't," she finally replied, her tone now icy, not amused at all. She chuckled a humorless laugh and continued with biting derision. "But, you know? If you try sometimes, you just might get what you need."

"Two can play a song game, Edward. Sober up and get over yourself. Call me when you are actually coherent."

Before I could answer, there was a click.

Slowly, numbly, I stood up to replace the receiver, attempting to process the conversation I'd just had and figure out why she'd hung up. I couldn't even remember what I said.

When I turned my head to glance around the room, trying to make sense of my body and its positioning, a wave of dizziness rocked through me, and I felt my stomach curl into a tight ball. I coughed, hoping to clear the thick lump that suddenly seemed to choke my breath, and I could taste a hint of bitterness threatening to rise.

Placing my fingertips against the wood grain of the table, I wanted to steady myself, to ground myself, to still the swirling colors and shifting floor. But my head just wouldn't stop spinning. Everything was moving in wide, rolling waves, and I felt my body leaning and pitching. I blinked back the burning of my eyes, but each time my lids slid down, they stayed shut just a little longer, leaving me swimming in blackness.

"I am so fucked in the head. I ruin everything," I whispered through clenched teeth. The next sound I heard was crystal shattering as my tumbler exploded against the wall.

My knees buckled and the world tilted. And then, there was nothing.

~.~.~

I opened my eyes, and all I could see was white. It took me a few minutes, but as my eyes slowly cleared and my mind followed suit, I realized that the white was simply the cotton of my sheets. Against my cheek, they were cool and smooth, almost like silk. Inhaling, I could smell the faint, clean scent of fabric softener and detergent.

I was a back sleeper by nature, so at first, it wasn't obvious to me how my face had managed to plant itself into the mattress. When I lifted my head slightly to look around, to try to ascertain the time, the day, anything to clue me in on what I'd done or what had happened, sharp pain shot across my eyes and set up residence in my temples.

"Shit," I groaned, rolling over on my back and squinting my eyes as they tried to adjust. Everything was too bright, too white, and it felt like my eyes were being stabbed by invisible knives. The flats of my palms darted to my eye sockets, trying to rub out the hurt. But just moving my arms – anything – hurt; it was that special kind of ache reserved for when my body needed to tell me that I'd fucked up. My skin felt slick and greasy with sweat and my temperature was too high. When I sucked in the next breath, the pleasant smell of fresh sheets was replaced by the sickeningly sweet pungency of the stale alcohol pouring out from my skin. I smelled like a goddamned bottle of cheap scotch.

For at least half an hour, I simply laid there, too exhausted and too miserable to move. Every time I lifted my arm, it was like I was moving through water, sluggish and weighted. My entire body felt like it was pinned to the mattress, so heavy and so weak. And my head felt like it was going to fucking explode. Every time I moved, I cursed myself for my folly.

When I realized it wasn't getting any better, bleary-eyed and wobbling, I finally moved to sit up, hoping to make it to the shower, hoping that the heat would soothe my body. But as the world righted, however, my stomach revolted. Half running and half stumbling, I made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit what felt like my body's entire contents into the toilet. Over and over, for what seemed like forever, my abdominal muscles clenched and contracted, painfully expelling everything I had until all that was left was bitter, yellow bile and dry heaves. With every hack and every gag, my throat flared in pain, scratchy and rough from being scorched by acid.

Panting, I laid my head down to rest against the cold porcelain, willing it to be over, begging God to leave me be. Against my sweat-soaked skin, the cool felt so good, so needed. My eyes snapped shut and I focused on nothing but the chill hardness against my forehead. Shivers ran down my arms, and my hands shook and scrabbled against the tile. The sound of my nails scraping across marble echoed in the room, only matched by the pounding of blood in my ears.

When I was confident that my body was through, that there was truly nothing left in me, still not risking standing, I awkwardly stripped my soiled clothes off and crawled into the shower, wanting – no, _needing_ – to wash the stench of my idiocy away. Against the stone shower walls, the skin of my back pebbled and quivered like a live wire. I could feel everything; every touch tingled with sharp, feverish pain. Unsatisfied, I reached up from my position on the floor and turned the temperature up until I could barely stand it, wanting to feel the burn all the way to my bones. Underneath the scalding rain, my skin turned bright scarlet and I watched my muscles tremble.

"You've gotta stop this shit, Edward," I stuttered, my teeth chattering.

Where there had been anger before, now all I felt was hollow, unblinking despair. And this wasn't the same darkness I usually felt, the sorrow, the mourning, the guilt; this was ragged and raw. This was unrelenting misery. This was the feeling of being held underwater just below the surface, just where I could see daylight. This was the feeling of reaching for something that my fingers couldn't grasp. This was me wanting something – and I still wasn't sure exactly what it was other than the fact that it was something _different_ – and knowing that my mind wouldn't let me have it. I wasn't capable of anything more than this, of being here.

Tears leaked down my face as I vaguely recalled and processed what had gotten me to this point. I wasn't drunk and shaking and slumped down naked on my shower floor because of Bella or Jacob or any of that shit. I was here because of _me_, because I always destroyed everything that ever meant anything to me, and this was all I fucking knew how to do.

.

.

* * *

**A/N: **

At the risk of sounding like a public service announcement, I've seen the ugly face of alcoholism and severe depression in too many I've loved, including in my own nuclear family. It isn't just drinking too much too often. If you or someone you know uses alcohol or other substances to escape the pain and stress of life, this may be a sign of alcoholism, depression, and/or other disorders, all of which can be helped if help is sought. Please do so.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Black Hole Sun_, by Soundgarden


	13. A Side of Me You Didn't Know

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, as always. You two are lovely and 8 shades of awesomesauce.**

* * *

_**A Side of Me You Didn't Know**_

* * *

Three days.

Three days and the sting of my humiliation had yet to wane. This – this emotion, this _shame_ – was precisely why I never bothered with _friends_. This was why I was simply better off alone, where I could do the least amount of damage to myself and to others.

Each and every time my eyes drifted out the window to the bright red squares of her shutters, my face flushed equally bright and my skin heated. I'd behaved like a real motherfucking prick over the phone, and that assessment was based solely upon what I could remember. God only knew what I didn't remember. I certainly didn't want to know. As such, it wasn't overly surprising that Bella hadn't called again. I couldn't blame her at all.

Since the morning when I'd crawled off of my shower floor still reeking of alcohol and hung over, a dozen or more times each day, I debated on calling her to apologize – a desire that surprised the hell out of me seeing as how I rarely apologized to anyone for anything. I felt like I owed her some explanation or some offering to show that my attitude was wholly attributable to me, to my fucked up head, and not to her. But being the chicken shit I was, I did no such thing, instead opting to sulk away my time by burying my nose in work. I wasn't sure why it mattered what she thought of me anyway. In fact, I hated that it _did_ matter and I fucking hated that I couldn't seem to let it go. After all, she had all the company she needed in the form of that mutt from the reservation. _Fuck him._

Being a Saturday, there was little for me to do work-wise. In reality, there wasn't too much for me to do at all. At least in my indignity, during these last few days I'd been productive, having mostly caught up on all of my paperwork and orders. And I'd thankfully managed to not drink myself into a fumbling, blacked-out stupor again. I considered that to be an accomplishment considering how pissed off I was with myself.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a small, discontented voice which recognized that managing _not_ to fall down drunk wasn't exactly an achievement of which to be proud, and that over the last few years, my consumption of alcohol had gotten entirely out of hand. But I rationalized that it was still better than those fucking pills that that therapist had pushed down my throat. And he wondered why I stopped attending his sessions. He was nothing but a psycho-babbling prick anyway.

With no real work, however, I had little to occupy my body and mind, which was never a good situation for me. I needed activity, something with which to distract myself, something preferably to pull my thoughts away from the idiotic and unexplainable feelings I had every time I looked out through one of the front windows.

Bored and meandering through the house, I decided to make some effort to straighten it. Looking around, there were empty carryout containers, ripped up wrappers, and an embarrassing number of empty bottles littering nearly every flat surface. My nose wrinkled when I walked into the living room, noting that the normally pleasant and clean smell of the house had been tainted by the cloying pungency of days-old food and waste. Grimacing in self-disgust, I thought that were Mrs. Cope to stop by, she'd likely flay my ass, especially for the condition of the – _her_ – kitchen. Moving to the doorway, I could barely see the speckled granite of the countertops, and the sink was nearly overflowing with dirtied dishes and silverware. When I caught sight of _growth_, I briefly debated just chucking them all away and buying new. This was worse than any of my days back at Dartmouth, and that was quite a feat.

Tentatively, I began fingering through the litter and dishes, trying to sort waste from non. As I pitched a particularly large stack of now-old, unread newspapers into the garbage, I glanced up and noticed that tacked to the small rectangular bulletin board over my key rack by the counter, there was a small note written in Mrs. Cope's neat script. A quick read revealed the name and number of a recommended maid service.

"You knew this would happen, didn't you?" I muttered, tearing the paper from the corkboard and shaking my head. I sighed and ran a hand through my nest of hair. "Of course you did."

An hour and three filled bags of garbage later, I'd had more than enough for one day and settled onto a barstool to go through my mail and to try to enjoy the bland concoction of a ham sandwich I'd put together for lunch. This was the fourth sandwich I'd eaten in so many days, and it looked entirely unappetizing. Resigned, I took a half-hearted bite and washed the taste of cardboard down with a lukewarm soda. Without Mrs. Cope, my meals had become little more than attempts at nutrition.

Flipping through the hefty pile of bills and gaudy colored junk mail, I paused twice. The first envelope, I recognized the source immediately. And then, the second – tucked in directly behind the first – I set aside to deal with later.

Turning the first envelope over in my palm, I stared down at my mother's handwriting. When I refused to return her calls or emails, she always resorted to this. And I always gave in, knowing that I'd hurt her with my indifference and alienation yet again.

Leaning my head back, mentally preparing myself for the contents, I gazed up at the ceiling, following the craggy mountains and valleys of the plastered texture. I smiled briefly, recalling barging through the side door one fall day after school and finding my mother curiously perched up on a ladder spreading sticky white stucco over the smooth drywall.

"It's more dramatic," she'd said by way of explanation. With a sweeping flourish, she'd waved her hand and bowed. Then she'd barked a laugh at our incredulous expressions and directed Emmett and me to move the chairs around to create a raised walking path for her. At the time, Maria had been too young to do anything but giggle and watch as wet plaster dripped down and dried in our hair. She'd laughed even harder when Emmett was too impatient to wash it out and opted for a buzz cut. For a good four weeks afterward, she'd taken every chance she had to rub and pet his shorn head and call him 'Fuzzy the Bear'. And he had loved every minute of it.

When I tore open the envelope, a piece of expensive, ivory-embossed cardstock with elegant silver lettering fell out. I'd known that my father's sixtieth birthday was coming, so the invitation wasn't a shock. This event was a big deal – for my dad as well as for my mom. I understood that this was one family gathering for which I wouldn't be forgiven if I failed to attend. But I didn't want to think about that right now, so I quickly set it to the side, willing myself to ignore it. I had almost a month to dread that affair.

I flipped the envelope, shaking it slightly, and a small, plain, yet tasteful folded card spilled out. My cheeks puffed out with a breath I hadn't realized I'd taken and my fingers involuntarily went to my forehead as I opened my mother's personal stationery.

_Edward, _

_I hope everything is well with you. I know you are so busy with your business, but I wanted to let you know how much I love you and how I miss hearing your voice. Emmett called the other day and said he and Rose had eaten dinner with you. I'm so happy he's moving back to Forks. I'll feel so much better with you two boys in the same town. And we're all so excited about the baby and Rose. She's such a lovely girl. And she's so good for Em._

_Seattle is fine – loud and too fast, but fine. I don't know when your father will ever slow down; that hospital is a mad house. But he loves it and says that there's so much good he can do here. _

_I did finally manage to convince him that that old recliner of his has seen better days, so we're redoing the living room. And I've been doing some painting and redecorating in the bedrooms and kitchen. But to be honest, and don't you dare tell your dad, I don't know if I'll ever be one hundred percent satisfied with this condo. It's just not the same, you know? I wish we had at least a little bit of a yard. I've met a few ladies in the building and we're all thinking we'd like to build a rooftop garden. I think we all miss having that little space and time to piddle and make things grow. It will be something to occupy our time and something we can all do together. If the building association will allow it, of course. _

_I also wanted to tell you that we had lunch with Mrs. Cope earlier this week at the hospital. Your dad called and said she was there, so we took her out to give her a little bit of a rest. Gerald is so sick and she's running ragged. She was asking about you. The poor woman feels so guilty for leaving you by yourself, but don't worry, we assured her that you are doing well and eating. That seemed to make her feel a little better. _

_You are, aren't you? Doing well, I mean. I hope so – so much. I want that more than anything else in the world, you know that, right? I just want you to find happiness and peace. And I want you not to be alone. I miss you so much. Please call me. _

_Love, _

_Mom_

My body felt heavy and sagging. In exaggerated movement, I leaned my elbows against the granite counter to prop myself up. The stone felt hard and cold to the touch. Suddenly tired, I dropped my head to a palm and closed my eyes. Behind my lids, my eyes stung as I whispered my response. "No, not really, Mom. I'm not okay. I haven't been okay since… I'll never be okay." I swallowed, forcing a salty lump down my throat. I could feel it sliding down my esophagus, heavy and thick, stretching my chest in discomfort. I exhaled and my fingertips pressed hard into my brow. "But I love you, too. Even if I don't act like it."

Trying to ignore the telltale wrinkled circles decorating the paper, where I knew her tears had fallen and dried, I slid the card away as far as my arm would stretch. Burying my face in my both of my hands, I cursed myself for causing her so much grief. Tonight, I resolved, I'd call tonight, never mind the fact that I'd likely have to deal with my father and his interrogations as well.

**~.~.~**

Grumbling to myself, I slammed the car door shut and tossed the thin white and green envelope onto the seat next to me. I needed groceries and a fill up. And I also assumed that Ms. Swan would want her letter from the _Superior Court of Maricopa County_. Normally, I would have guessed that legal documentation would have come by way of official messenger or at least have required a signed receipt. Perhaps this letter wasn't important, but perhaps it was; I certainly didn't know anything about legal procedures in the state of Arizona. Regardless, no matter how much I wished it otherwise, I _couldn't_ be the kind of asshole to just do nothing and not give her the letter. An hour of foolish anxiety and deliberation had proven that. And, of course, this meant that I had to man up and confront my primary source of recent distress and witness to my mortification. _Or, I could shove it in her mailbox and be on my merry fucking way_, I concluded, cranking the engine.

As I crept down the drive, I mumbled to myself and aimed to quietly slide the envelope in her mailbox and move on - but with a quick glance forward and a groan, I realized that I could do no such thing. Because directly in front of me, I saw that Bella Swan was not only outside where she could and would see my approach, she was standing on the fucking roof of the house, two stories off of the ground.

And my heart nearly climbed out of my chest when I saw her slight frame wobble and lean, trying to keep her balance.

My foot almost went through the floorboard when I slammed on the brakes. The gearshift just barely made it into park before I was out of the door, not bothering to even close it.

"Goddamnit," I yelled, jogging toward the extension ladder that she had leaning precariously against the siding. Eyes always on her, I hovered just below, irrationally hoping that were she to slip, I'd somehow be able to break her fall. Any thought of my own personal humiliation went by way of the window, completely forgotten. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get the fuck down! Right now!"

"Oh, hi, Edward," she spoke nonchalantly, as if nothing at all was wrong with the situation. Her voice barely carried from her distance up, but I could hear amused sarcasm lighting her tone. She looked down at me and quirked an eyebrow. "Nice to see you, too."

"Get down!" I yelled again. Without realizing it, my fingers found their way into my hair and pulled sharply. I wasn't sure why it made me so anxious to see Bella up there, but image after image of her tumbling down and hitting the ground made my skin crawl and my breathing shallow and rasping.

"What? What's your problem?" she chuckled, completely ignoring my commands. "It rained the other night and I noticed that the gutter wasn't draining that well. There's a wad of leaves or something up here. I'll be down in a second."

Before I had a chance to argue, I heard a stuttered thud against the shingles above and I saw her pitch slightly to the left. With an audible whoosh of breath, she righted herself. "Oops. There's a little bit of moss or something in the shady section. Slippery as hell," she muttered down to me. As if that kind of explanation made it somehow acceptable that she was a mere inch from breaking her fucking neck. _Oops? Fucking oops?_

"Please, Bella? Come down, okay?" I pleaded, not caring about the strange desperation in my voice and the tightness in my lungs. I didn't care about the whys and wherefores of my idiot emotions and how pathetic I sounded. I just wanted to stop seeing her fall in my head. For some reason, those thoughts and images physically _hurt_. "Look, I'll have someone come out and take a look on Monday. Or fuck, I'll crawl up there. It's my house and my responsibility to handle. Not yours. Just-, just get down from there. Please?"

"Calm down, Edward. Jesus, I'm not a kid," she answered with a visible roll of her eyes. Her brows shot up in triumph and she continued, mostly to herself, "Aha! There it is."

When Bella crouched down on her knees to pull out whatever it was that she'd found, the unease in my stomach settled slightly, somehow more comfortable that she was less likely to plunge to her death with four points of contact. But because she was kneeling, I also couldn't see what she was doing. All I could see was rotten leaves and debris raining down.

"Damn it," she cursed abruptly. Her hand slung back and forth as if she'd burned it, and whatever ease I'd been granted evaporated.

"What? What happened?" I stuttered, unable to hide my concern.

"Stupid metal gutters. Just a cut, nothing major," Bella sighed. But from the expression on her face, it hurt more than she admitted. "Hey, drag the ladder over here so I don't have to walk back across, okay?"

Gladly, I scrambled to comply, thanking God she was for once being reasonable. As soon as the rails hit the wall, Bella lithely slid around and planted her tennis shoe on the second step. With each movement of her descent, my white-knuckled, steadying grip on the rails relaxed, satisfied that I would not be witnessing her death or broken body today.

And with each step down, another part of my brain also tried to ignore the sensuous left-right shift of her jeans-clad hips. I certainly didn't need that kind of distraction and I was disgusted with myself for the slip. But her hips and the rest of her were impossible for me to ignore when she was almost to the ground and missed the final step. With a surprised grunt, she stumbled backward into the cage of my chest and arms, and my breath caught when I felt the contact.

"Ah, crap," she muttered, quickly turning around in my embrace. For what felt like hours, we just stood there, staring, both of us frozen in place, the ladder, the roof, and her cut forgotten. It was like the contact of her body stunned me into dumb silence and stillness. She was small, almost… _delicate_ in size, standing a full head below me in height. But I barely noticed because my lungs flooded with the light, floral scent I'd come to associate with her and because my eyes drew directly to her face. The apples of her cheeks were flushed, most likely from her rooftop gymnastics, but I couldn't seem to get past the way the pale pink dusting highlighted the cream of her complexion. When her bottom lip curled underneath the white line of her front teeth, I gulped uncomfortably and my mind went blank.

It took me a moment to register that her palms were resting lightly along my ribcage, her right just over one of my surgery scars. I could feel her thumb moving along its contour, unconsciously tracing the indented line. The twinge of damaged nerves woke me from my haze, and our gaze broke when I looked down. There was a trail of red running down the top of her hand, splitting into thin rivulets around her wrist and through her fingers, staining both the white of her shirt and the black of mine.

"Sorry!" she gasped, jerking her hand away. "Edward, I'm really sorry. I'll, agh, I'll buy you a new shirt or something."

_What? Like I give a shit about a fucking shirt!_ I wanted to spit. _You are fucking bleeding and you almost fell off the goddamned roof. _Thankfully, now that she was safe and breathing on solid earth – and not touching me – coherency returned. With a huff, I backed away and snapped, "Whatever. It's old."

"No, seriously. I'm so sorry," she stammered. "But thanks. For bringing the ladder over. And for catching me." Her voice was shaky and a little breathy, and I had the distinct impression that the joking bravado she'd carried two stories up was just that – bravado. Either way, it was perfectly obvious that she was still bleeding, and with all the blood, I couldn't see her cut to see how severe it was. And for some godforsaken reason it was bothering the ever-loving fuck out of me.

"First aid kit," I grated, trying to not focus on the streams of red dripping onto the grass. If it didn't stop soon, from the sheer volume of it alone, I knew that a visit to the emergency room would be necessary. Growing up as a doctor's son had taught me at least that much. "You have one, right?"

"Ah, what?" Bella answered, apparently not following my very simple query.

I nodded to her hand and the blood soaked hem of her shirt. "You're bleeding. Entirely too much for my comfort level, okay? Where's a damned first aid kit? If you don't have one, I do in the car."

"I'm fi-," she started.

"No, the fuck you are not fine, Bella. Don't even try that shit with me."

Her chin shot up in defiance but after no more than a second of silent consideration, she apparently realized that I wasn't dicking around. "Okay, yeah, I've got one. Come on in the house," she sighed, spinning on her heel, knowing I'd follow.

Three minutes later, I had her hand underneath the faucet.

"Can you roll your sleeve up?" I asked quietly, trying not to focus on her winces of discomfort. Every time I looked down and saw her face bunched up in pain, I felt some inexplicable stab in my chest and my throat constricted. It was as though I was the one causing her pain. And I fucking hated that, more than I hated seeing that sad, distant expression I'd seen a few times before.

"It's okay," she quickly answered. Her other hand darted to the hem of her sleeve and actually pulled it down rather than up. She glanced up and for a moment, our eyes locked, mine confused and hers pleading. She continued in barely a whisper, her eyes never leaving mine. "It's already ruined anyway."

I wanted to argue with her and tell her that it was in my way and making tending to her wound – now that I could see it, a long, jagged gash across the back of her hand – a real pain in the ass, but something in her eyes told me to shut my fucking mouth. She was almost in tears, pools of moisture visibly brimming, and her lip quivered slightly. She had never looked more vulnerable in my presence. This was an entirely new Bella, so unlike the sarcastic, confident woman who gave me what for without hesitation. This Bella looked frightened and young and exposed. This Bella was one who the dark parts of me recognized immediately. I wasn't equipped for this, and I feared what might come out of my mouth, praying that I could _not_ be an asshole, but also not fully knowing if I wanted to not be an asshole. So, instead, I chose a diversion.

Clearing my throat, I looked away and tried to come up with something else to say, some other topic, something safe and inane. But my mind was shit, and my goddamned curiosity was raging as strongly as it ever had. The only thing I could focus on was whatever it was that she didn't want me to see and how it related to all of the other mysteries surrounding her.

But like always, Bella recovered first and surprised the hell out of me again, making me almost wish that I'd just jerked her sleeve up myself.

With a twitch of her lips and a cocked brow, she asked, "So, been listening to any more Rolling Stones lately?"

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _The Reason_, by Hoobastank.


	14. The Light You Bring

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Two ladies always make this better. Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.**

* * *

_**The Light You Bring**_

* * *

I winced under her scrutiny, but kept my eyes focused on the stream of water pouring across the top of her hand. My face had to be scarlet; I could feel the heat slowly rising up my neck in acknowledgement of her attention. In a barely intelligible mumble, I responded, "So, I really said that, huh?"

"'Said' is a bit of an understatement," Bella laughed.

In my periphery, her uninjured hand gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles nearly white with strain. Her short-cut nails curled into the steel, stilling a slight quiver. Whether the reaction was from physical pain or something deeper, something hidden and related to what had driven her here, to my house, to the house of her childhood, I didn't know. But with that tell, a new piece of information slid into place about Isabella Swan. This woman was a martyr, a silent sufferer. But then, based on the few snippets of her past that I had collected, it really shouldn't have come as a surprise. We were far more alike than I was comfortable admitting.

Risking a glance up, I found glittering eyes and a tight-lipped smile. I only sighed, hoping she wouldn't continue, that she wouldn't press me for more, and loosened my grip on her wrist. I wished that she would hurry up and stop bleeding so that I could make my exit. I supposed I could leave now with good conscience, but the masochist in me kept my feet planted firmly on the dated beige tile of her kitchen floor.

"Actually, you sang to me. If we're calling that singing."

I looked around wildly, my eyes no doubt saucer-wide in both disbelief and embarrassment. A stream of curses raced through my head, but thankfully, my tongue stopped most of them before I made an even bigger ass of myself than I already had. This was precisely the information I didn't want to know. Because it was fucking humiliating.

"Ah, _fuck_. God," I fumbled, not knowing how to respond to such idiocy. "I'm, shit, I-, I was… well, not really myself the other night."

For a long moment, we were both silent, me staring back down at the fading pinkish rivulets falling between her splayed fingers and her looking at me. It was wholly unsettling, and I prayed for the blood to stop. The sounds of our breathing – mine, ragged and arrhythmic to my ears – mingled with the thumping of fat droplets against metal. Were I somewhere else, away from her and my own mind, that gush of water could have been soothing. Instead, it sounded like battering rams.

After what could only be described as an eternity, my prayer was answered and I gently moved her hand to the counter and dried it, careful not to disrupt the edges of the gash. If it started up again, I had no clue what might come out of my mouth.

"Antibiotic." My voice was tense and high, lit by my mortification and need to escape.

Wordlessly, Bella handed me a slender white tube, and as quickly and painlessly as I could manage, I doused the angry red line and then asked her for the gauzy bandage I'd laid out to loosely cover the exposed skin.

"Thank you," Bella murmured softly, pulling away. I still couldn't bear to look at her, my shame now fiery and hot.

Brusquely, I huffed, "You're up on your shots, right? Like tetanus and shit?" Because I couldn't very well have her contracting some blood-borne disease from my gutters. At least that was what I told myself. If I were one hundred percent honest, however, the fact that they were my gutters had nothing to do with the welling of anxiety in my chest. If I were one hundred percent honest, I just didn't want her in pain. For whatever idiotic reason.

"I'm up, so don't worry. I'll be fine."

I fucking hated the word 'fine'. 'Fine' was a word that said the very opposite of its meaning. 'Fine' said 'go away' and 'I don't need your help' and 'I want to be left alone'. 'Fine' was a word I knew well.

Squinting, my gaze trailed across the tile and over to the clock on the stove, not really reading it, but wanting something to look at other than her. "Yeah, well, you probably want to check that in a few hours and maybe change the bandage. And don't fucking hit it or try anything stupid. Like climbing shit. If it hurts later, take some ibuprofen or something. And if it gets all red and puffy, you need to go to the doctor."

"Thank you, Edward," she replied, repeating as if I hadn't heard. Her voice was even softer than before. "I'll be okay."

Everything felt… off. The air I breathed in felt charged and tense, thick perhaps. It was that second before a lightning strike when hairs stand on end and the air sizzles and swirls. It was that stir of hot wind that whispers across the back of a neck, that tingle of recognition in the dark. I didn't have an explanation for my discomfort, for the unmistakable pulse that I couldn't quite place. But the tightening stab of my muscles locking both warned me to retreat and held me in place.

Now that my task was complete, I was left standing there dumb and mute, silently drowning in this strange woman's presence. For without some activity on which to train my focus, to distract both her and me, I was forced to deal directly with her and her godforsaken expressions. The entire situation was awkward, as it was apparent that she was looking for something, likely the apology that I had yet to offer or perhaps some justification for my behavior. God forbid I had said anything worse to her in my drunken state than I already knew. Surely, the earth would split open and consume me if I had.

I stuttered out what I hoped would be sufficient by way of apology. "Ah, Bella, I-, I'm sorry about the other night. About the phone call, that is. I was, like I said, not really myself, okay? It won't happen again."

My face was on fire anew. I wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. And my reaction – more visceral than made sense – confounded the hell out me. While I didn't apologize often, it _was_ possible and it wasn't as though I hadn't said the words before. How or why this woman elicited such a strong response was mind-boggling. Some unspoken part of me gave a damn what she thought about me, and no good could ever come of that. No one needed to be saddled with that kind of burden.

When she said nothing, I sucked in a breath, prepared to apologize again, and lifted my eyes to meet hers. Bella's expression was indiscernible, some cross between amusement and pity. The pity that I despised won out and in a low, sympathetic voice, she asked, "Drunk?"

As she spoke the word, I visibly flinched. Of course, she'd know. My cheeks puffed out with exhaling the breath I'd forgotten I held, and nervously, I rubbed my chin. What could I say?

"Yeah. I guess."

"Why?"

_Fucking hell. _There was no way I'd admit that to her, that seeing Jacob Black walk through her cherry red door had stoked some unidentifiable emotion that felt like burning hot cinders in the pit of my gut, an emotion I couldn't stand feeling, and had sent me straight to my scotch.

Turning, I leaned back against the counter, feeling the bite of the squared edge in my back, and crossed my arms over my chest. As if to ground myself, my fingers grasped and twisted the fabric of my shirt. Along my ribcage, I could feel the dampness where her blood had soaked through. Normally, the sight, the smell, the feel even, of blood would have sent me into near panic, but apparently, that irrational fear had been quashed for the moment by greater need. Whatever the fuck that meant, I hadn't a clue; just like everything else surrounding this woman, I was clueless.

"Doesn't matter," I muttered, returning my gaze to the blue clock on the stove. Only five minutes had passed, but it felt like an age had come and gone.

Dissatisfied with my vague response, Bella shifted to stand in front me, physically blocking any path of escape and demanding that I look at her. Her irises were dark and depthless, and her arms crossed her chest in mimicry of mine. In irritation, one brow arched high and her lips pursed and curled to one side. "Not good enough," she pressed.

"I said it doesn't matter, okay. And it's none of your fucking business," I growled, glaring with as much heat as I could muster, trying to steamroll the conversation away from the whys and wherefores of my humiliation.

But as always, Bella seemed to be immune to my temper. "No, it's not. But I asked as your friend and I expect an answer. Especially after having to listen to your out-of-tune ass sing the worst impersonation of Mick Jagger I've ever heard."

My eyes widened and I swallowed hard. Anger and furious disbelief coursed through my veins, hot and acidic. Against my sternum, my heart thudded so loudly, a stampede in my ears; it was a miracle that she couldn't hear it. Breathing came in sharp bursts of air, too shallow to provide enough oxygen, but just enough to suck in her light perfume and dizzy my mind. My nails clawed through cotton, digging between my ribs in a poor attempt to shore myself up. I was falling apart in front of this woman, yet she didn't seem to even notice. She merely stood there patiently waiting with an expectant expression lighting her face, assuming without a doubt that I'd answer her query.

"I'm not your friend, Bella," I whispered, shaking my head. "Trust me, you don't want that. I don't want that."

Bella cocked her head to the side, still oblivious to the chaos swirling inside of me. A strand of chestnut hair fell and hugged the curve of her jaw. Her lip quirked and without blinking, she pressed, "Why not?"

"Just, no. I'm not what you'd call friend material," I rasped, gulping again. God, how I wanted a drink, something to bring me back down to earth and rationality. My throat throbbed, recalling the familiar soothing burn.

Her gaze slid up and down my face, roaming, searching for something. I wasn't sure what she saw in my features, but abruptly, a small, pale hand darted out, and before I could react, reached up and smoothed back one of the unruly tufts of hair standing out from the side of my head. Softly, even tenderly, her fingers skimmed down the side of my face, slowing when her fingertips hit the grit of my days-old stubble. My breathing caught, and as much as I wanted to duck and dodge her advance, my body froze beneath her willing touch. Just as it had been before, it was like nothing else, the feel of her touching me, willingly, gently. Where her skin departed, mine felt hot, almost feverish. For a fragile, fleeting moment, my body sighed, relishing the feel of something so different, forgetting everything. That second of contact was so unexpected and so… _good_, I had to suppress a groan of longing.

"What are you so afraid of?" she whispered, her watchful eyes following the trace of her fingers. Her lips were parted just so and I could only stare stupidly as they moved.

I wanted to shove her away and tell her to leave me the fuck alone. I wanted to wrap my hand around hers and touch her the way she was touching me. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay. I wanted to understand what the fuck was happening to me. But more than anything else, I wanted to fucking breathe again.

But I needed to lie, because I didn't even know what the truth really was, what these goddamned emotions even were. And the idea of exposing how fucked up I was to someone like her was intolerable. I had no idea what to say to her. The way she saw through me was both terrifying and yet somehow, some way, liberating. I shut my eyes, ignoring the heat of her skin on mine, again unwilling to face the openness and sincerity I saw in her. Her voice and words clanged in my head, disharmonious and screeching, slicing through everything else. _What am I afraid of?_

_Forgetting… not forgetting. Dying… living. Numbness… pain. Solitude… disappointment. Her… myself… breaking. Again. _

Before I could bite my tongue to silence my voice, my mouth answered honestly with a single, shaky, breathy word.

"Feeling."

Her fingers stilled and then were replaced by the cup of her palm. My traitor body opened my begging eyes. I couldn't believe that I'd allowed myself to fall into this, but at the same time, I couldn't – and wasn't even sure if I wanted to – pull away. In the last four years, I'd never felt this exposed, this raw and bare in front of another person. The edge beckoned, sharp and narrow, littered with jagged rocks and slippery stones. And it was so high my stomach sank in fear.

A small, sad and knowing smile graced her lips, and that vulnerability I'd seen before returned, an echo of what had to be me at that moment. Her voice was surer than mine, but it was still laced with trepidation and something else. "Yeah, I know. Me too."

**~.~.~**

"Your turn," she bantered, pointing a dripping paintbrush in my direction from her position on the floor. "You owe me."

My lips pressed together, trying to contain a chuckle. The drop cloth could very well have been a piece of modern art; there was more paint on it – all speckles and streaky whirls – than there was on the wall. Yet, none of it phased her at all. She was utterly carefree, weightless with her playful sarcasm and trembling, giggling lips. _Young_, I decided, taking in the creamy smoothness of her cheeks. _She looks so young, like she hasn't experienced life and all its heft_.

"Like hell it is," I mumbled, looking back to my wall to hide my amusement as well as my appraisal.

"And are you going to paint at all tonight? I've covered two walls to your one half wall of baseboard. You're slacking, Swan. Don't think you can trick me into doing all of this for you."

Without pause, she gave it all right back. "Edward, you have a roller. So don't give me that bullshit." She rolled her eyes and slung the brush again, this time managing to reach me with a faint spray of droplets. "You and your 'sports injury'. I call bullshit. You just suck at detailing and didn't want to crawl around on the floor."

I just laughed and dipped the head of my roller into the tray of paint by my feet. Viscous and thick, the paint clung to the wooly nap, falling away in long, tacky strands. Where the roller trailed in the pan, for a brief second, its shape remained, an empty divot quickly filled in by swirling, flowing color. She'd selected some tint reminiscent of heavily creamed coffee. When I had asked, 'Why brown?' Bella had smiled indulgently at my lack of decorating skill and explained that it coordinated with the darker shade of the dining room. Whatever that meant.

Smartly, I answered, "And? You fell for it, didn't you? It's not my fault you're so gullible. I thought my limp was rather convincing."

Her nose scrunched and her eyes danced in the bright glow of the overhead light. I watched, wholly entertained as she jerked a stray strand of dark hair out of her eyes. I wasn't about to tell her that she now had two broad streaks of white across her forehead.

With a huff, Bella snapped, all yappy bark and no bite, "Did anyone ever tell you that you are a veritable asshole?"

I smirked, recalling the day of her arrival and the way she'd glared and cursed at me, completely unafraid and unaware. "I believe you accused me of something to that effect some weeks ago."

"Well, I was right. And you haven't changed at all." Like a petulant child, she stuck her tongue out at me and crossed her eyes.

For a fraction of a second, I was transported back to a time when another brown-haired woman had done the same. I'd stolen her last Valentine's candy, some tiny pink sugar heart with nonsensical words stamped across the front, and she'd run to Mom. Before I buckled, unwilling to drown and lose whatever it was I had right now, I shook my head, begging and willing the memory away.

A little too gruffly, overcompensating for my lapse, I retorted, "Liar. I'm painting fucking walls at three in the morning, aren't I? And are you seriously sticking your tongue out at me? Really? How old are you? I hope you didn't lie on your lease. That's probably a felony."

If Bella noticed my forced pitch and words, she gave no indication, going on as if I hadn't missed a beat. "Whatever. You're only here because you're afraid I'll fuck it up."

A grateful, toothy grin stretched across my face to the point where I actually thought my jaw would be sore later. "That's a given. And I'll have you know that I'm not just here to prevent you from wrecking my house. I'm also here for whatever it is you have baking in the oven."

"Edward, you are such a guy. Your cooking skills must really blow if you think I'm a decent cook. And it's not in the oven anyway. Ever heard of a crock-pot? Didn't you pay any attention in home ec? Or shit, what did you eat in college?"

"Duh, Bella, what every eighteen year old guy eats in college." Chuckling, I made show of rubbing my empty stomach.

Curling her legs underneath her, she stretched across to reach the end of the baseboard. Without permission, my eyes followed the length of her torso – exposed from her shirt lifting – noting the way her slender waist tapered above the swell of her hips. In a strained voice, she asked, "And that is?"

Still staring at the swath of pale skin, I replied flatly, only partly aware of what I was saying, "Pizza and beer. Throw in a random hotdog or two and a Mexican buffet and you have the diet of every college age male in the country."

When she sat back up, I spun back around. Rolling a little too quickly, I rebuked myself for my slip. I had no business looking at her in that way, as a man would a woman. After that afternoon when I'd been so close to losing control, when she'd somehow sensed my distress and pulled me back, without discussion, we'd returned to what seemed to be our routine of sorts. She hadn't pressed me for more, and I hadn't offered it. After what felt like forever, still dazed from the seesaw of thoughts and emotions, she'd walked me to the door and simply told me she'd see me later that night. And I'd showed up. No questions, no deep heart-to-hearts. Just comfortable quiet and light conversation; it was like nothing had happened at all.

During our time together, she didn't ask questions I didn't want to answer, and in return, I didn't ask the ones for which my damnable curiosity pined. We just painted and… talked. About everything and nothing at all, we simply chatted and passed the time, falling into the closest thing to normalcy I'd experienced in years. Fucking that up was not an option.

"Explain how you're so skinny then if all you ate was crap."

"Fuck that, I'm not skinny. I'm _lean_," I argued.

Her ponytail whipped back and forth with her laughter. Seeing her laugh so freely made me want to laugh, too. This was the same easy giggle and demeanor I'd seen her wear with Jacob. That she could be so at ease with me was both unsettling and exhilarating. This was a new kind of drunk for me, a lightening of the dark, a momentary reprieve from the weight of my thoughts and mood. Knowing that it would vanish the second I stepped across the threshold only made me want to hang on to it that much more tightly.

"What do you weigh?"

My forehead pinched. "Hell if I know. One sixty? Who knows that shit anyway?"

"And you are what, like six foot? Six one?"

I nodded, not really seeing her point.

Bella grinned one of those blinding grins that made me feel entirely too warm, making me momentarily forget my resolve. "See, skinny."

"Yeah, fine. So, can we eat?" I grumbled. My stomach echoed its approval.

Resting her brush against the rim of her paint cup, she gazed up at me, her lips twitching. "Ham sandwich for lunch again?"

"Yeah."

"So, after we have dinner or breakfast or whatever it is we're calling it, I think we're done. I have to be up by nine. You coming back tomorrow?"

I wasn't sure why she asked considering the fact that over the last week, I'd knocked on her door night after night without fail. But every morning before I left, she asked the same question. For a second, I contemplated, mostly for show, for I already knew my answer.

Dipping my chin, staring down at a misshapen splotch of white paint, I replied softly, "Yeah, fine. I'll be here."

.

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Falls on Me_, by Fuel


	15. Put Your Hands Into the Fire

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you, as always, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. You ladies are wonderful.**

* * *

_**Put Your Hands Into the Fire**_

* * *

"Tell me about James," I asked quietly, training my focus on the pale swirl of cream in my coffee. Curling wisps of fragrant steam spilled over the rim of the mug, its contents still too hot for me to drink.

More than anything, I _felt_ Bella stiffen, if such could be said. Sitting there in the black wrought iron chair beside me, her motions simply halted in shock at my unexpected question, and without looking over to confirm, I knew that she was staring at me as if I'd just slapped her. I knew that I was stepping over the line, over our invisible, unspoken agreement to avoid meaningful topics. But for some reason, tonight, after another four days of painting walls – slowly – and eating and teasing banter, I was tired of idle chitchat. And she'd mentioned Arizona again. She hadn't said anything earth shattering or overtly relevant, but just the mention of her previous life, a time about which I knew virtually nothing, set my brain to spinning, again conjuring up a dozen imagined scenarios that had resulted in her being here.

Risking a glance, my eyes lifted and met the expression I'd imagined. Lit by the slow-rising sun's pink light, her bottom lip was folded between her teeth, and the sharp indentions into rose colored flesh told me she was close to bringing blood. Her eyes flickered nervously to me, down to the black mass of fur at her feet, and then back up to me again.

"Why?" she breathed. Inside her small fist, the hem of her sleeve twisted and bunched.

_Why? Why _do_ I want to know? Why _does_ it matter?_ I begged of myself. Honestly, despite all the hours I'd wasted trying to understand the whys and wherefores of my inappropriate fascination with this woman, I still had no real answer, nothing definable or concrete that I could give by way of explanation. I had no right whatsoever to her secrets, but undeniably, I wanted them. I wanted to understand how she seemed to be able to see right through me, how she always knew what to say to me when I floundered, how she was able to hide her demons behind smiles and snark, and I wanted – no, _needed_ – to know what it was about her that made me feel more normal and alive than I had since I'd exiled myself to solitude, yet in the same breath, made me so goddamned confused all the time.

But I wasn't about to say all of that. Lazily, faking indifference, I shrugged and muttered a half-truth. "I just don't get you, that's all. I want to understand why you're here, I guess."

Bella looked out across the back yard, refusing to make eye contact, but even from my side vantage, I could see sharp worry lines come to life and the faint straightening line of her jaw bracing. While one fist tugged and pulled at her shirt, the other wrapped tightly around her cup, knuckles strained and white. Over the buzz of the morning cicadas, I could hear her breathing in deep, full breaths, not unlike those that fucking shrink tried to teach me as a way to quell rising panic.

Uncomfortable with her stressed silence, worried that I'd fucked up our ever-shifting dynamic, I skimmed my forehead and pushed my fingers through my mess of hair, noting the sticky clumps that clung together, likely from paint splatter – Bella seemed to think it was fucking hilarious to flick her brush at me when I wasn't looking. When she still didn't answer, I tried and failed to qualify my statement. "I mean, I get wanting to come back to your dad's house and town and all, but… I don't know... I just-… Fuck, never mind. It's none of my business."

Bella was somewhere else, somewhere distant in time and space, still gazing away, and her muscles seemed to be locked in place. I didn't know what to do, what to say. I felt like shit and I wanted to kick myself for my idiocy. I needed to leave her alone; I couldn't be good for her, even in this menial capacity.

A soft, high-pitched whine drew my attention down to where her dog had risen and laid his chin – the only spot on the animal's body that wasn't black, but was instead a mottled gray – on her knee. His dark, liquid eyes stared up at her and an oversized paw scrabbled at the denim covering her calf. I'd never really been around animals, so it was strange and more than unsettling how he seemed to be attuned to her voice and posture, clearly more than I was. But the contact seemed to jolt her and break her stare. An idle hand reached down and stroked the animal's ears, an action that appeared to be expected, rote even.

I cursed myself again, realizing that a fucking dog was a better companion than I was. He comforted her; I brought her grief. My personal assessment and warning to Bella so many days ago was more accurate than I could have known.

Before I could pull my foot from my mouth, in a careful, reserved voice, almost flat, she answered, "When I was twenty-two, just after graduation, James and I married. It wasn't a big ceremony or anything, just close family and friends. We'd met when I was still in undergraduate, just a few months before actually. He was in law school already, living in Tucson. Because I went to a small college most people have never even heard of, on weekends, we – my friends and I – usually found ourselves with University of Arizona kids and we went to their hangouts and parties. Anyway, James and I met in a coffee shop near campus – he was studying and I was avoiding a pub-crawl. He was completely charming, he made me laugh and feel special, and then the next thing I knew, I was wearing his wedding ring before we really even knew each other."

An image flashed across my vision, a younger version of Bella happily walking down a bright red carpeted aisle in a small church with old oaken pews. Her hair was piled on top of her head, glittering with pearls and pins, and her cheeks were pink and full. Draped in dove white silk, she was carefree and completely naïve in her youth. Beside her was a hard man with blurred, indistinguishable features holding her hand too tightly. But lost in the moment, she didn't even notice. I didn't like this image at all and I wanted nothing more than to banish it from my head.

"Like I said," she went on, clearing her throat and looking down at the dog, still not looking at me. "We didn't really know each other. But in the beginning, we were pretty happy, I guess. We didn't see each other that much, you know, since we were both in graduate school – I ended up in Tucson in their Lit program so that we could be together. But we were like most busy young couples. We had friends and we visited relatives.

"Our relationship was very superficial, but I didn't realize it then. We didn't talk very much, and when we did, it was always about school or which firm he wanted to work for. He never really tried to get to know me. And I didn't know what a marriage was supposed to be anyway. Slowly, though, things began to disintegrate. We each had all these expectations that weren't met. We started arguing a lot. He didn't like the idea of me going to graduate school for another three years and being stuck in Tucson. He wanted me to quit school and stay at home so that I could be there to entertain his clients. It took me a while to figure out that he wanted a prop more than a partner."

A shadow rolled across her face, an almost undetectable clamp of her teeth and narrowing of her eyes. "At first I tried, hoping to make him happy, hoping to make things 'work'. It was stupid, but his salary easily supported us both. I quit grad school with a Masters and we moved to Phoenix. I pushed aside my goals and settled for a part-time job there, teaching at the community college like I told you before."

The shadow darkened and a low, boiling venom laced her tone. "But that wasn't really good enough. It was always something, something I didn't do well enough or should have done differently. Our fights turned into contests of silence. He turned even colder and grew more distant. There were days at a time when I wouldn't see him."

"Why didn't you leave?" I sputtered, incredulous, not understanding why she or any woman would stay with such a fucking asshole.

For the first time since she started her story, Bella looked me in the eye. As quickly as it had built, that venom was lost and her face spoke of nothing but ancient despair, almost as if she was no longer thinking of James. Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow. Hoarsely, she answered, "Because sometimes things happen that are outside of our control."

Her voice, her words sounded so much like me, like the litany of regrets and miseries that had taken over my mind and body. The hollowness, that emptiness borne of loss, that hole I tried to fill with scotch or paint or work or even Bella, whatever it took, struck me squarely in the chest and left me reeling. The whole situation – that I knew that she was editing, for either her benefit or mine – pissed me off like I hadn't been in weeks, or months even, and my lips wouldn't cooperate and hold back my temper.

"Did he hit you or hurt you?" I asked hotly, blurting it out before thinking, jumping to the most obvious conclusion while staring unabashedly at her hand winding through black fur. All I could see in front of me was those fucking long-sleeved shirts. My fists balled, my skin stretching angrily across my knuckles, and I wanted to hit that man with indistinguishable features, never mind that all of this had occurred years ago. I knew what I was feeling – anger, outrage. Freely and without guilt or berating myself, I could admit I felt protective of Bella. I rationalized that I would have felt that for any woman like her. She was small, too small to defend herself. And no matter what we called whatever the fuck relationship it was that was building between us, I couldn't stand the thought of someone physically harming her. It was wrong, all wrong.

Bella's eyebrows shot up at my brazen query and her eyes bored into mine as if she could see the back of my skull through my eye sockets. Immediately, I regretted ever opening my mouth, and especially for revealing my visceral response. She looked absolutely furious, like she wanted to rip my fucking head off. All semblance of melancholy vanished as quickly as it'd descended. Now, I had definitely crossed the boundary of our tenuous _friendship_. Apparently, that question was absolutely, unquestionably off limits.

Shelving my fury, trying to salvage the situation, I stuttered out some excuse for an apology, planning to leave before she kicked me out. This – this, my lack of verbal filter and asshole tendencies – rendered me shit friend material. Why hadn't she just listened to me?

As I scooted forward in the chair, however, the back of a hand, pale, bone white, slipped into my line of sight and suddenly, a blanket of silken skin draped across my balled fist. When I looked up, stunned, I saw soft, silent pleading, a complete turnaround from the fire I'd just seen pouring out from her eyes. My heart pounded, still livid over my earlier assumption and accusation, but now throbbing a disjointed thunder against my sternum. I couldn't decipher this woman's emotions; she was too fast and I was too stupid to follow. Softly, imploringly, she whispered, "Edward, wait. I'm not angry. I'm, well, I'm just not used to sharing this side of me, okay? No one's ever really asked about James. Other than Alice. I-, _don't_ _go, _please?"

Her fingers walked along my fist, prying my fingers apart. Wordlessly, I stared, trying to understand what she wanted from me. Cautiously, I flipped my hand over and spread my palm out. The corners of her mouth turned up into a small smile as she threaded her fingers between mine, clasping our hands together. She stared at an unknown spot on the horizon and murmured, "I understand why you asked. I-, well, it's… _nice_… that you care enough to want to know. I wasn't – he didn't hurt me – at least not in the way you probably imagine."

**~.~.~**

"Goddamnit, Jenks!" I growled into the receiver. Tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, I poured myself two fingers, needing some form of relief from incompetence, something to calm my nerves before I threw the phone. In my irritation, I was careless and the amber liquor sloshed over the rim and splashed my hand. "Fuck… How hard is it to find? You said you had access to that case of '61 Hermitage and that it could be bought. Are you saying you lied to me?"

I huffed in aggravation and swallowed half my glass as I listened to Jenks stammer out nervous apologies. Every word out of his mouth made me want to punch through the desk. "Mr. Cullen, my apologies. I was told it was for sale. But the seller is hesitant, not sure that she's willing to part with it. She's thinking she might hold on to it for her estate now that her grandson is a master chef at some swanky place in Los Angeles."

"I don't give a fuck if her grandson runs Château Pétrus or serves fountain drinks at some local drive through. Peter Levinson is willing to pay sixty grand for that case alone. And he wants _that_ year. I suggest you get your ass up to your seller's mansion in Bellevue and be your charming self, or find me another twelve bottles. Otherwise he's going to take his business elsewhere and Peter is a _good_ customer of mine. I will be fucking pissed off if you can't deliver."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cul-"

Just as I was pulling the phone away from my ear to hang up, an obnoxious beep interrupted both Jenks's yammering and my twitching finger. Without bothering to check the caller i.d., I flipped over, effectively cutting off his bullshit excuses. Anyone, even a damned telemarketer, would be better than dealing with Jenks right now. _Fucking idiot._

I gulped down the rest of my scotch, exhaling oak and spice and heat through my nose. My voice, marred by the burn of the alcohol and lingering anger, hissed through the line. "Cullen."

"Edward?"

Before my mind had the chance to shut my mouth down, I snapped back, "Yeah, what?"

"It's me, Bella…" Her words came out sounding more like a question than a statement, likely surprised at the gravel in mine. Even uncertain, her voice was as soft as a drizzling summer rain, cool and light, soothing almost, a direct contrast to the fire in mine. My shoulders relaxed and slumped back into the cushion of the chair, and the grip around my tumbler relented. Mentally, I wanted to kick myself. My reactions to her were ludicrous.

"Ah, right…" I started, not really prepared for a conversation that didn't involve me cursing and yelling. Really, I just wasn't prepared to deal with her. While we spent hours each night together, speaking on the phone was foreign and unfamiliar. Without asking, I simply assumed something was wrong with the house, that this was a tenant-related conversation. Forcing calm, I asked, "Apologies. What can I do for you?"

Bella chuckled, likely at the more formal shift in tone. "You okay?"

My fingers drummed a hard rhythm against wood, the tips of my nails tapping in time. No, I wasn't okay, I was still furious and stressed out. But she didn't really need to hear about all that. Muttering distractedly, I hedged, "Just work shit."

"Ah, okay. You still planning to come over tonight?"

I drew in a deep breath and sighed. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

"Don't. How about I come to your place for a change?"

Completely taken aback, I stuttered something that I thought sounded like 'why'. This was new and I wasn't comfortable with it at all. I didn't want her in my house. More so, I had no idea what to do with her here. Her house meant painting and mindless activity. There was nothing like that at mine, and last night's conversation was still weighing too heavily.

As usual, Bella just ignored my reticence and laughed, cheerfully explaining, "Can you get carpal tunnel from a few weeks of painting? Because my wrist is killing me. I'll bring a pizza or something."

_No. Fuck, no. Please…_

My tongue fumbled for words, stammering, "Bella, shit, I don't kn-"

Barreling on, not letting me finish my sentence, she answered back. I could _hear _her grin. She knew exactly what she was doing and she didn't give a shit about my discomfort. And I was too dense and slow to say otherwise.

"How about ten?"

I sighed again and slammed my head back against the cushion. "Fine. Don't worry about the pizza. I'll have one delivered."

**~.~.~**

"So, you didn't want to paint?"

Bella smiled from across the bar and took another bite. Not really answering, she shook her head as she chewed.

"Why not?"

Holding up a finger, she took a long pull from her beer. Unconsciously, my eyes focused on her lips and the way they hugged the lip of the bottle. The whole motion was entirely too distracting, and the moment she pulled the bottle away, I started, thoroughly embarrassed.

As if she didn't see the crimson of my neck and face, she cleared her throat and answered, "I told you. My wrist feels like it's on fire. And on top of that, I needed a break from the smell. I know they say it's low odor paint, but they lie. I feel like I'm inhaling a gallon every time I walk into the living room. It's nice smelling something else for a change."

I grimaced, recalling the flurry of activity this afternoon, trying to straighten the house – again. Surely, she picked up on the too strong scent of pine and citrus, helpful chemicals in washing away staleness and stench, but clear indicators of a last minute clean job. Whether she saw through me or not, thankfully, she gave no indication or judgment.

"Yeah, well… that makes sense, I guess. How much more do you plan to do?"

Bella shrugged and fingered the rippled edge of the paper plate in front of her. Her gaze flitted around the kitchen, pausing at points where I didn't really understand why.

"The whole thing."

I coughed – perhaps more like choked. My brows were somewhere in my hairline. "You want to do the whole house?"

An indulgent lift of her lips told me she was silently laughing at the drink I almost spit out in my disbelief. Purposefully taunting, she didn't answer and instead busied herself by adjusting her ponytail. Dissatisfied by something, she pulled the rubber band out and a cascade of mahogany and chestnut highlights fell around her shoulders, a dark frame surrounding pale cream and a tinge of pink.

Like the idiot I was, I couldn't help but hope she'd leave it down. It looked… _nice_. Underneath the overhang, my knee bobbed up and down and my fingers curled around edge of the seat below me, trying to ignore the urge to reach over and touch, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked. At least half a dozen times today, my thoughts had drifted back to the feel of her fingers twined between mine and the way her action had eased the fury I'd felt when I'd believed that her ex-husband had damaged her. It was too intimate an action, one from which I should have shied away and quashed the second it happened. But I hadn't done what I should have because I was a selfish prick and I'd… _liked_ it. Every time she touched me, my body betrayed me.

Softly, she answered, "Well, the dining room is done, the living room will be probably tomorrow. I'd like to do the upstairs bedrooms and bath. And I'd like to paint the kitchen, too. I like color. It's… I don't know… warm? More inviting? Not _boring_." The last part was said as a tease, a jab at the 'apartment beige' she seemed to abhor.

"And let me guess, you think I'm going to help you?" I bantered back, pushing away all thoughts of hands and hair and my stupid reactions.

It was impossible for me to not return her answering grin. She smiled with her whole face – lips stretched wide, tiny creases in the corners of her eyes, and her eyes themselves lightened and twinkled mischievously. With a smirk and wave of her hand, she agreed, "That's the plan. I need your height anyway."

"So you're just using me then?" I joked.

"Absolutely."

A half an hour and three-quarters of a pizza later, we settled on the couch in the living room. It was too muggy outside to sit on the front porch and the mosquitoes were rampant after a late evening rain anyway. I'd thrown in some random movie, but neither of us was really watching. It was comfortable yet uncomfortable, comfortable in that I wasn't alone, uncomfortable in that this situation was new and I felt extremely awkward. Like always, I had no idea which side of me was stronger: the side that inexplicably wanted her to stay or the side of me that screamed for her to go before I either fucked up her life somehow or before I allowed myself to do something foolish.

_Too late, Edward. You've been nothing but a fool since the day she arrived,_ my latter half argued as I fisted the corner of a throw pillow.

Bella looked over at me, sliding her gaze down to my tightened fist and then up to my face. Casually, she propped her elbow on the armrest and dropped her head into her hand, tilting so she could still study me. Hesitantly, or perhaps merely carefully, as if she were trying not to startle a skittish colt, she said, "So, last night… I answered a question of yours, one that was a little outside of our normal range of subject matter…

"I think that it's my turn now."

My eyes surely boggled at the unexpected request and my brain flipped through questions and answers I didn't want to give – ones that there was no way I _would_ give. I knew precisely what she would ask; unquestionably she would ask me about Maria, no doubt having heard rumors and knowing something already because of fucking Black. I fought to maintain steady breathing, but my lungs were already constricting and my chest felt as though it were caving in.

My answer was fast and succinct and it left no room for misunderstanding. "No."

"Yes," she answered without missing a beat.

"I said, 'No'," I snapped again, irritation and indignation bubbling to the surface.

Her expression hardened and dark pink colored her cheeks. "You haven't even let me ask! And I answered your question, Edward Cullen. I deserve the same courtesy," she clipped. "Stop being an ass."

I exhaled a puff of depleted air and my fingers nearly pierced the fabric of the pillow in my lap. My vision clouded with anger, and I didn't bother trying to hide it. I lost all control, and irately, full of spite and derision, I spat, "What do you want to know, Bella? I take it you've been talking to Jacob again? Did he tell you more about me? Do you want to know how I killed my own fucking sister? How my best friend beat the shit out me because of it? Or how about the way my family couldn't stand to be near me so they moved away? How my own father told me that it should have been me instead of her? How no one can stand to be around me for more than an hour because I'm such a dick? Or maybe how I drink myself drunk every holiday? Or hell, half the days of the week anyway. Which question did you have in mind?"

Bella was silent for a moment, her eyes darkening and looking at me like I was some kind of caged animal, snapping and pawing at the bars. I felt like a caged animal.

Smartly, she returned, her voice low but demanding, like my tirade was nothing more than a swat from the feather pillow in my lap, "Well, if you'd like to discuss all that, then I'm fine listening. But that wasn't what I was going to ask. Over a week ago I called you and you were drunk. You admitted that much, but we never continued the conversation. I want to know why, Edward. That's all."

In shock, my heart rate kicked into overdrive, almost to the point of panic. It was like I'd been kicked in the gut. _No. No! _My mind spun. I couldn't tell her that. The situation as she knew it was humiliating enough, and mercifully, ever since, she'd just let it go. But now… _fuck_.

"None of your goddamned business," I whispered, not trusting my voice with anything louder. "I apologized. That's it."

Like a dog wrestling a bone, she latched her teeth into me and went on as if she hadn't heard me, "Work?"

"Didn't you hear me? None of your business, Isabella."

Undeterred, she continued, "Something with your parents?"

Smacking my fist down on the armrest beside me, I yelled, "No!"

"With Emmett?" Her lips pursed as she read my face.

"Fucking, no! Stop already. I'm not talking about this with you. Why can't you accept that?"

Her face lifted from her palm and her stare pinned me motionless.

"Me?" she murmured after a moment of consideration. In her eyes, I saw that she already knew the answer.

"No," I muttered, but it came out more like a miserable groan, no heat, no conviction.

"What did I do?" she asked softly, as her hand reached across the space between us and grazed the tips of my fingers, a mimicry of her action the night before.

Almost begging, I replied, "Nothing, okay. It had nothing to do with you."

She licked her lips and hesitated. "That was the day Jacob came over to help me with the house."

"So? What do I care? It's not about you," I answered, looking down at her hand touching mine.

But it was useless because she saw right through me and I was pathetic. I remembered the way she jumped down the front steps, grinning from ear to ear. I remembered the way her ponytail swung back and forth with her eagerness and elation. All the rage and those goddamned _feelings_ came back in a torrent of fire and ice. After a week of stewing, I finally realized what those _feelings_ were. I'd been _jealous_ of him, just like I was _jealous_ right now, just thinking about him at her house, about him looking at her, about him maybe even touching her.

When I peeked up to read her, Bella smiled in understanding, a light blush creeping up her cheeks. Quietly, she replied, "I like you, too."

"What?" I asked confused and wholly disarmed. So sharply and shallowly, my erratic breathing was almost painful, tiny daggers stabbing me from the inside. I couldn't process her words in any way that made sense. My forehead crumpled under the weight and I gasped out an unintelligible, "I don't know wh-"

"And no, if you were wondering. I'm not interested in Jacob. At all."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Into the Fire_, by Thirteen Senses


	16. To Watch the Stoic Squirm

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you for everything, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.**

* * *

_**To Watch the Stoic Squirm**_

* * *

Behind a pane of clear glass, shrouded in low, tawny light and creeping shadow, a middle aged man and woman spoke, their voices lost in the roar of the late night train barreling along the overhead track. Dark, haggard eyes burned into bright blue, and lips furiously opened and closed in an unheard conversation, its heat punctuated by waving hands and vague, shrugging shoulders. Without sound as context, however, everything – inflection, significance, meaning – was lost, purposefully left open to interpretation. Futilely, I stared into the screen, trying to read their lips to discern their words, trying to understand whether they were spoken in anger or in passion. But my efforts were to no avail because all I could see were pinched brows and fast-moving lips. So, I kept staring, willing the interfering train away so that I could make sense of the scene, so that I could know what would befall these two strangers.

It was ironic to say the least. Because life imitated art.

And because I had no idea what to say or how to respond to the woman sitting next to me. I couldn't; I didn't understand, and for once – thankfully – my mouth was stunned into silence while I stupidly contemplated what she'd said. I did _not_ like her and I did _not_ give a fuck about Jacob Black. At least that's what I kept chanting to myself, as if repetition were a cure-all.

I didn't comprehend why or how, but inside, I could not deny that I felt lighter, weightless even, like my body was hovering rather than always sinking. It was alarming and wholly wrong how much I'd _enjoyed_ hearing her quick dismissal of Jacob Black, how some part of me wanted to ask her to say it again. It was that same volatile part of me that had exploded into fiery sparks of envy when I'd seen her interact with him. It was that part of me that I couldn't seem to rein in no matter how hard I tried; it was some buried shape of a man I'd forgotten existed. And that scared the fuck out of me because I wasn't equipped to deal with him.

I swallowed, acknowledging the crawl of anxiety in my gut and simultaneous scratch of need in my throat. _Weightless_ turned to jittery and nervous, like my veins were pulsing and twitching, clawing underneath my skin. And the longer I sat there, dumbly watching a movie that I couldn't even name, scared shitless to make eye contact with the person next to me, the more_ jittery_ turned into irritation, which would inevitably morph into something less than civil if I didn't do something about it. I wished that she would just go away and leave me alone.

When I'd met my threshold, pushing up from the sofa, I stood and muttered, "You want something? Soda? Water? Wine? Something else?"

Bella looked up at me and frowned, tilting her head to the side, studying my expression, as if she could somehow hear the unspoken words spinning through my thoughts. The corners of her mouth were tight and puckered, straining not to speak. But her eyes remained unreadable; I wondered why she stared at me like that, what she found worth studying. Because I surely wasn't it.

Still not smiling, she glanced down to where my fingers nervously gripped and rubbed against the side seams of my jeans, not quite knowing what to do but needing some outlet for my agitation. Her eyes followed a looping trail that circled from my face to my hands to some spot on the floor and then back up again. She was evaluating me, cataloguing me in some way. After meeting my eyes a second time, her frown lifted to a small smile, and she calmly replied, "Actually, yeah, that'd be good. I'll just have whatever you're having."

A loud stream of curses flowed through my head and I fought to still the grinding of my clamped teeth, because _of course_ she would say that. _Son of a bitch. Why can't she just go? _Not trusting my voice, I just nodded and turned toward the kitchen.

For what seemed like an age, I stared at the contents of the cabinet in front of me, deliberating, arguing with myself. I knew what I wanted; a full, unopened bottle was sitting there on the shelf staring me in the face, its shiny gold label sneering at my inability to make a goddamned decision.

But I didn't really think Bella was a scotch kind of woman. In fact, I had the distinct impression that she didn't approve of my consumption either, never mind her polite silence on the matter. I couldn't really blame her. After all, I'd been a drunken jackass to her over the phone, so she no doubt equated the two. But I had to find something to take the edge off, to settle my nerves and stop the itch, before I lost my fucking mind.

With a frustrated huff, I peeled the cap and poured out a third of a tumbler, deciding I didn't give a fuck what she thought. With a quick glance to the door, I lifted the glass to my lips, pausing just long enough to inhale fire and spice, and then slugged its entire contents down. Flattening my palms against cool granite, I stood, unmoving, sighing silently in relief. My throat burned hot and I could feel the welcome heat rolling down my esophagus, warming my chest, coating my insides and stilling the anxious quiver in my limbs. Relishing that burn, my face lifted to the ceiling and my eyes slid shut, anticipating the tranquilizing effect – that low buzz that traveled from chest to fingertips and finally to mind. I breathed deeply, in and out, feeling the burn die to embers. And then I repeated the actions all over again.

I felt calmer – _more stable_ – as I drifted to the refrigerator to grab two sodas. But when I straightened back up and shut the door, I nearly came out of my skin when I saw Bella leaning against the doorframe and staring intently at the empty crystal glass on the counter.

"I don't think you mix Coke and good scotch, Edward," she said, a peculiar modulation coloring her tone. There was a mix of emotion in her words, a forced banter blended with tacit thoughts and judgment. I couldn't tell if she was _angry_ per se, but as clearly as if she'd shouted it, I heard pity. I didn't want her pity. I despised it and I hated myself anew.

Any calmness I'd gained from the alcohol vanished, and my typical defensive wall shot up. Out of some combination of embarrassment, self-loathing, and indignation, I sarcastically quipped, "No, Bella, you don't. The Coke is for you, since I don't really see you as a two in the morning kind of drinker. But I could be wrong. Would you like a glass of scotch? A gin and tonic? Or vodka? I have that, too. In fact, I personally hate vodka, so if you wanted to get rid of that for me, that'd be great."

When I winked in mocking, challenging her to retort, her brow furrowed steeply and her arms crossed over her chest. But even I could tell that her actions weren't in anger or offense. It was more like she was shoring herself up to face the brunt of my verbal assault. Surprisingly calm, instead of spitting my spite back at me, she silently absorbed it and just stood there, waiting for me to continue lashing out, or maybe waiting for me to simply regain composure. But she didn't leave. I opened my mouth to speak again, but the words wouldn't form, leaving me glaring yet speechless. After a moment, she stared me levelly in the eye and quietly replied, "Stop it, Edward. Please don't start with me just because you don't know how to deal with your emotions. You don't have to be embarrassed if you want to drink in your own house. Why don't you pour me up something? It's not like I don't know what it tastes like."

I gaped. Stunned and witless, I fucking gaped at her while my mind tried to process and rationalize her words and behavior. I could hear the blood rushing past my ears, and my cheeks were on fire, this time not from alcohol, but rather from begging that this was all some twisted dream from which I'd soon wake. How I'd allowed _this_ - this whole situation with her in my house, telling me things I didn't want to process - to happen, I couldn't fathom. She was right; I didn't know how to deal with whatever _this_ was. Uncomfortably, I grimaced and palmed the back of my neck, massaging the tightening muscles, willing the awkwardness away.

"No, that's okay…" I breathed, stumbling over the words, hoping she could hear the apology in them. I didn't want to drink with her. I didn't want Bella seeing me like that and I didn't want to imagine seeing _her_ like _me_. She was too good for that shit. Even with what little I knew of her, I knew that much. She needed to run from me before I dragged her to the bottom of my ocean, before she drowned. Because I would; I'd drown her just like I had everyone else. My vision blurred and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I shook my head sadly, wearily, exhausted and just so fucking tired of life. I wished that I could be someone else. Looking down at my shoelaces, I sighed, answering more than just her request, "You don't want that, Bella. You don't. Trust me on that. Let's… come on, let's just go back in the living room."

When I glanced back up, her expression softened, and she quickly crossed the space between us, stopping only when she was so close that I could feel her presence as tangibly as I could see it. Before I could make a move to stop her, she reached up and pulled my hand away from my neck and threaded her fingers between mine for the third time. I stared down at her, still so confused and not knowing how to react. But all I could really think of was the soft pad of her thumb soothingly running along mine and the way a single, loose strand of her hair arced away from her face and curved back again, ending against her lower lip. Unthinking, I lifted my hand and gently tucked it behind her ear, careful not to touch her face.

Her eyes widened and warmed to a rich, liquid umber, and her lips stretched into a gentle smile. For a moment, looking down at her, I forgot where I was and what had occurred to bring us to this point. The man in me recognized that when Bella smiled, she was almost radiant – a balance of pink and cream and fire and kindness. And in that second, a sudden, unexpected thought – a _want_ – passed though my mind and trickled through my body. For the first time in more than four years, I wanted to kiss a woman, to feel that special kind of warmth and that connection of having someone in my arms. I _wanted_ it. _So much. _I _missed_ that.

But just as my mind flooded with panic from the whiplash of emotion and the self-loathing that would surely follow that unallowable thought, she saved me by backing up and dragging me toward the living room. Lightly, almost teasingly, she returned, "Alright, Coke it is, then. So, let's go finish this movie of yours. Though I think you're going to have to explain it to me. I didn't get that whole under-the-train-tracks scene. I couldn't decide if it was foreplay or fighting."

I very nearly choked, but at the same time, my shoulders sagged in relief, grateful for the distraction, and I allowed her to lead me back to the sofa. Without speaking, we settled into our respective positions, although this time, she sat close enough that the soft cotton of her sleeve brushed against my bare forearm, and she didn't let go of my hand. Under my breath, I mumbled, "But isn't it the same thing?"

**~.~.~**

The hum of hard plastic vibrating against wood pushed me over the edge of the cliff and pulled me into dizzy, dreamlike consciousness. I gasped at the sensation of wind whipping across my face, and when my feet lost ground, my heart plunged along with my stomach, waiting for the rocky canyon floor that never came.

I'd been dreaming again, one of my too-vivid reenactments. This time, I kept my eyes open through the crash and I saw it all in gory detail. As if from some point high above, I watched the car spin out, sliding on washed-out mud from the heavy rainfall. I watched it careen over the rail and flip down the slick embankment, finally stopped by an ancient oak. I could hear the shatter of glass and the rending of metal, and I listened to the screams of a woman filling and echoing in the cabin.

My perspective shifted and I was suddenly there. Copper and gasoline filled my nostrils and lungs, and there was a splatter of bright red on the dashboard. As the rain came down, it washed away, streaming in tiny pink rivers to the floorboard below. On my tongue, I could taste my blood, and as time wore on, I felt my body breaking beneath the weight pinning me down. Eventually, like always, the screams stopped and I passed in and out of awareness.

Another stuttering buzz pulled me from the wreckage.

When I wrenched my eyes open to meet the morning light, the memory of the dream turned hazy, fuzzy, like the tingle of a fleeting ghost. My heart was still racing and the healed but scarred splits on my ribcage ached in remembered agony, but at least I couldn't smell the blood anymore.

Still rough and groggy from sleep, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and growled, "Cullen."

A peal of bell-like laughter responded, not bothering with an introduction, "Jesus, you're still asleep, aren't you?"

"What?" I grumbled. I squinted and looked over to the window and to the streams of sunlight pouring through the blinds. "No. Not now anyway. I _was _sleeping, thank you very much." In truth, I _was_ thankful that she'd woken me up, that she had unknowingly rescued me from reliving the nightmare again. It always happened like that. Once it started, it would repeat, and each time, become more and more violent, more bloody, more painful. It would only stop when I could no longer bear it, waking up trembling, soaked in sweat and tears.

"Grouch," she snorted, oblivious to the act of kindness she'd performed.

Yawning, I garbled a pathetically weak, "Shut up."

Bella laughed again, clearly entertained. Personally, I didn't really see what was so funny. Too sweetly, she went on, "Very convincing, Edward. You know it's like noon, right?"

In shock, I glanced over to the alarm clock. Dryly, I corrected, "No, it's five after actually."

"Lazy ass," she teased. And I couldn't help but smile.

"Whatever. I was entertaining last night. This pushy woman I know wanted to watch ridiculous movies all night and wouldn't leave my house until like four in the morning. I should have kicked her ass out."

"Well that's certainly a coincidence. I have this guy that's always at my house at ungodly hours. I think he just comes to eat because all he seems to know how to fix is a ham sandwich. He's a piss poor painter. It's sad really."

Finally, I laughed, giving up. "Maybe."

Stretching, I arched my back and yawned again. "So, why did you wake me up? Because if this isn't important, I'm going to be ticked. You better have at least three inches of water on the floor."

"God, please! But I do need some help," she replied. "Not three inches, but three hundred pounds worth. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But still, I need help."

"Huh?" Either I was stupid in the mornings or she spoke in riddles.

"I need your muscles, Edward."

My brow quirked and I barked a laugh, unable _not_ to jump to the double entendre. "Oh really?"

"Don't even go there. There's a piece of furniture that I'm probably buying and I have to pick it up. I think they'll load it for me, but I need help unloading it and getting it into the house. Are you working this afternoon? If so, never mind. I don't want to inconve-"

I wound and unwound the sheet around my fist, thinking. Before my brain could catch up, however, my impatient mouth interrupted her, "I'll help you." More quietly, I asked, "Where do you have to go?"

"Really? Seriously? It's at an antique shop in Port Angeles."

"What time?" I heard myself ask, even as my legs were swinging over the side of the bed.

"Oh, just whenever. I'm going to leave in like ten minutes. So, that's what…? A little more than an hour there and an hour back..."

"In your truck?" I scoffed, imaging that thundering hulk of steel screaming in protest. "Bella, I hate to break it to you, but that truck's not going over fifty-five. _Ever_."

A sharp _tsk_ sounded through the line, and she smarted, "Shut it. I like my truck.

"Anyway, so maybe an hour and a half there, then back, and say an hour-ish at the store for loading and my normal meandering. I might stop by a bookstore or something while I'm there. So… I don't know, I'll be back by somewhere between three-thirty and four?"

After a moment, I asked, "What will you do if they won't load it?"

"Oh, I'm sure they will," she answered quickly, but her voice was uncertain and soft. "The elderly lady that runs the shop says she can usually find a couple of guys if needed. Her shop isn't far from the docks."

My cheeks puffed out and before I could think anymore about what I was saying, I countered, "Look, I'm starving and I'm awake now thanks to you. Buy me late lunch after we pick it up and I'll ride with you and make sure it gets loaded."

Once I actually heard myself, everything from last night came rushing back. _Goddamnit, Edward! Shut your mouth, will you? What the hell are you doing?_ I berated silently. Because apparently, I was a fucking masochist, who enjoyed tormenting myself with regular doses of humiliation. Not to mention, I was also an emotional basketcase, who couldn't seem to step off the rollercoaster. And last night's idiocy simply wasn't enough for me.

A soft, surprised, "Yeah?" broke my mental rambling. She sounded… _pleased._ I could hear it and I could suddenly picture her standing in her kitchen smiling.

Suppressing a groan, I made up some excuse to justify my absurd actions. "Yeah, sure. I'm caught up anyway. That town's full of losers. I'd probably feel guilty if you ended up having to get some ex-con to help you out and he hit on you or shit. Or worse."

Bella giggled, "I don't think that's a very likely scenario."

"Or fuck, what are you going to do if that rusted out behemoth breaks down? I'll just have to come get you anyway."

"I've driven there several times be-"

"Whatever. Give me ten minutes and pick me up."

**~.~.~**

"What's the name of this place?" I asked. I slowed her truck as we approached the harbor, noting that even on a Thursday afternoon, it was quiet. At least she'd allowed me to drive, and admittedly, the hour and fifteen-minute ride had been far more comfortable than last night. "What's the address?"

"Turn right onto East Front," Bella directed, staring out of the passenger window at the street signs and then back down to the print-out resting on her lap. "The directions say it's only a couple of blocks. Near Vine."

It wasn't a hard place to find, even nestled between the other larger and gaudier shops lining the harbor. A subtle and tastefully decorated glass storefront declared our destination as surely as the scripted 'Antiques' written across the awning. Much like its ageless face, the store's interior was a quiet museum, a testament to bygone eras, filled with rich and vibrant burgundy and gold upholstered wingbacks, dark mahogany end tables and stretching buffets. Lithographs and slightly faded oils lined the walls, and colorful Depression glass and bone china filled pie safes and painted jelly cabinets. It looked like my grandmother's old house, and a nostalgic smile flitted across my lips when I caught sight of a familiar looking tray carrying a shiny silver pitcher with matching goblets. It even smelled like my grandmother's house – dust and age, leather and potpourri.

I stood back and waited patiently, watching, quietly observing the surroundings. A few moments after the bells on the door jingled our arrival, an elderly woman with a dyed white bouffant and a thick string of pearls padded out from a back room, a kind smile lighting her face.

"Oh, Bella! You came back!" she cried, excited, as she clasped her wrinkled hands over Bella's with acquainted warmth. "You are going to love this wardrobe, my dear. The detailing is perfect. Even the knobs are in good shape. I had my grandson clean it up for me with a little tung oil, and it's just gorgeous! I don't think you'll have to do anything to it. If Frank wasn't such an old stick in the mud I'd keep it myself."

The moment I heard the word 'wardrobe' I kicked myself for agreeing to this. Three hundred pounds was not a joke, and tomorrow, my back would kill me for it. But Bella grinned, seemingly just as excited as the elderly shopkeeper, and I didn't have it in me to protest.

"Thank you, Margaret. I'm so glad you called and held it for me."

With surprising speed, Margaret scurried back through the door, calling out, "Give me a minute and I'll have it rolled out here so you can see. I'm so glad you brought a fella along. We'll need him to get it up in the truck if you decide you want it. It's a heavy sucker."

"I didn't realize you liked antiques," I mused, glancing around and trying not to think of back spasms.

Bella looked around, following the direction of my focus, and her response was almost wistful, entirely reminiscent of my own earlier thoughts. "I love them. They remind me of when I was a kid, when things weren't so complicated. They're… I don't know."

I just nodded, knowing exactly what she meant when my gaze fell to a nearby sideboard.

When I turned back, a mischievous glint lit her eyes and she chuckled, "Oh, and you know that davenport of yours in the hall? Let me know if you decide to get rid of it."

I knew full well that that piece was worth a few thousand because I'd paid that much at an auction I'd once attended for a client. And I knew that she knew that I knew. So, I smirked and played along, "Yeah? It's pretty worthless. How much will you give me? How about five bucks?"

"You ass. Where did you find it anyway?"

Before I could reply, a muted voice called from the back room, "Bella, this is my grandson. He's a strong boy. Good one, too. Been helping me out when he's free from work. He's the one who cleaned this thing up for me." The thud of booted footsteps and squeaking of metal wheels followed the elderly woman onto the main floor. Behind a wall of burled rosewood, a tall man with messy, dirty-blond hair peeked out, and time stopped. Margaret's voice sounded distant, hollow, as if echoing in a barrel. "This is-"

"Jasper Whitlock," I answered flatly, staring directly into steel gray eyes.

Jasper's back straightened and he blinked in surprise. Just barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Hello, Edward. It's been awhile."

.

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**A/N: **The movie that they are watching in the beginning, you might wonder... Purely my imagination, influenced by a RL situation from long ago. :)

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Uninvited_, by Alanis Morissette.


	17. This Thing is Slowly Taking Me Apart

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Thank you for everything, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.**

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_**This Thing is Slowly Taking Me Apart**_

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Margaret clapped her hands together and laughed in delight, unknowingly breaking what felt like an eternity of silent tension. "I didn't know you boys knew each other! How remarkable! Edward, right?" she asked, looking at me as if she'd not heard the disdain in my inflection nor seen my glare. I nodded curtly, not wanting to cause a scene. While I was certainly an asshole, I had enough upbringing to respect the elderly. Were she not here, however, I doubt I could have restrained myself. Oblivious, she turned to Jasper with a gentle smile and went on, "Were you two in school together?"

Jasper glanced over to his grandmother and gave her an indulgent smile before looking back to me. When our eyes locked once more, his expression fell, his smile sliding away. Not breaking eye contact, he answered softly, "Yeah, Gran, Edward and I knew each other several years ago."

I rocked back on my heels and clenched my fists, needing a physical outlet to contain my mouth. I had nothing to say to him that could be uttered in public, nothing that hadn't been said already, and being in the same room with him made my blood boil. My lungs constricted, shriveling inside my chest, and I could hear the pounding rush of blood in my ears. I'd forgotten nothing, and years of pent up bitterness and anger came roaring back.

From a purely physical standpoint, Jasper looked precisely the same as he had four years ago. Built much like me, he was tall and lean, angular even, and he wore his faded jeans and dark t-shirt a little loosely, casually. But unlike me, his stance and posture were surprisingly relaxed, as if he didn't feel the same hot current of lightning coursing through his veins as I did. His gray eyes were almost warm, almost as if he were cautiously pleased to see me. Despite time and distance, I still could read him like a book, and right now, he was exuding inexplicable calm, as if he'd forgotten all that had been said and done.

_Fuck that,_ I wanted to spit. Every cell in me was on fire, waiting for the right words to be spoken, just waiting for that douse of gasoline that would ignite and explode. _Fuck him and his goddamned serenity._

A gentle tug on the back hem of my shirt wrenched me from my spiraling fury, and when I looked down, I saw wide, confused eyes staring up at me and a head cocked in concern, no doubt seeing and judging my surprise and anger for what it was. Bella said nothing but her expression spoke volumes, and her hand moved from my hem to my forearm. At first, I thought she saw my volatility and meant to restrain me, but as I felt her small palm and short-cut nails tickle across my skin, I realized that her intent was to soothe.

_Not here, not now,_ I chanted, willing my blood pressure to lower.

My jaw locked and through gritted teeth, I muttered, "Bella, are you buying this thing, or what? If so, let's get it loaded. _Now_. I don't have time to dawdle in Port Angeles all afternoon. I've got shit to do." Not giving her a chance to answer or argue, I pulled away and turned on my heel to leave. Before the front door swung back, I called over my shoulder, "I'll pull your truck around and wait outside."

Her beat up old truck was already parked nearby, so there really wasn't a purpose to my departure. But I needed away from that room and the suffocation that threatened to pull me under. I needed away from the reminder of the past and away from having to see his goddamned face. Fuming, I popped the clutch and then cursed the damnable truck when it stalled because of my fumbling haste. Frustrated and shaking, I dropped my forehead to the wheel and shut my eyes, begging to find some semblance of reason and sanity. Trying so hard not to think and not to remember, I concentrated on just breathing, sucking in shallow, rasping breaths of old vinyl sweetened by the perfume I'd come to know as Bella's. But the moment my lids closed, I knew that my efforts were useless, and memories of that night came back in a raging torrent, pulling me under.

_I told you to leave her the fuck alone, you son of a bitch! She was my sister! _

_It was her choice, Edward! God, I fucking hate you. You took her away from me. You and your goddamned arrogance. Why couldn't you just let us be happy? At least let her be happy? She wasn't a baby anymore._

_Shut the fuck up!_

_I loved her, Edward. I was going to marry her!_

_Fuck you, Jasper! Shut up!_

_Whatever, it's all your fault. You're the one who killed her. You get to live with that._

I was yelling. He was yelling. With a sudden, sickening crunch, I could hear the crack of my jaw breaking when Jasper's fist met my face. Pain darted from my chin inward, toward the top of my spine, and the smell of blood bit my nostrils and curled my stomach. Furious, I lunged and then was thrown back to the pavement. Dazed, I looked down and saw that my knuckles were split and bruised, and when I looked back up, he spat scarlet. It was raining outside and we were both soaked to the bone, but that didn't stop us, didn't even faze us. He hit me. I hit him. Then I was panting and bent over and my ribs ached. The still-tender surgery incisions along my sides pulled taut, a warning. But I didn't care, so I launched myself at him again, and it took four men to pull us apart.

After that night, six weeks after Maria's funeral, I'd never expected to see his face again, certainly not here, not today. My reaction to seeing him was visceral, hot, and uncontrolled, but even I knew that underneath the anger lay grief and emptiness, because in reality, seeing his face was nothing more than a reminder of all the lives I'd fucked up and the life I'd left behind.

The metallic creak of a hinge and a soft voice interrupted my mental torment. "Edward? You okay?"

I rolled my head against the steering wheel to face her and sighed, "You buying it, or what?"

Bella nodded uncertainly and I took that as my cue to climb out of the truck and do the damned job I'd come to do. Thankfully, Bella had already laid out the tarps and blankets, so it was merely a matter of hefting the massive block of wood into the back without scratching it. _The sooner, the better, _I added inwardly. When I rounded the corner, I saw that Jasper was slowly rolling the wardrobe out. His expression was neutral, guarded perhaps, and his eyes stayed on the wood in front of him. The heat of my earlier reaction died, and I just felt tired, apathetic, and sapped.

The fucker was heavy, but manageable, and manual labor distracted me from thinking too much. We worked silently, not really needing any coordination, and I focused solely on the task at hand, communicating direction through sharp nods and quick glances. It was strange how our movements worked in almost perfect synchrony. I simply chalked it up to the two decades Jasper and I had known each other and the hundreds of tasks we'd completed much like this one, including the last time we'd moved Maria into her apartment at the University of Washington. Some things – some motions – you never forget; they are embedded, rote, never to be lost.

"How are you getting her back outta there?" Jasper asked quietly, turning to Bella as I cinched the last tie down. I could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes, and I had the distinct impression that he wanted to ask something else.

Bella glanced over to me and swallowed, but then smiled lightly. "We'll be alright. I don't think I've broken Edward's back just yet."

"Pretty fucking close," I muttered, looking at her through the open windows and cabin between us. "Are you ready, Bella?"

Bella smiled again and reached for the door handle. "Thanks for helping, Jasper. I really do appreciate it. And please tell Margaret again how much I love the wardrobe and to let me know if she ever finds any matching pieces."

As Bella's door rattled shut, Jasper walked over to the tailgate. "Edward?" His voice was hesitant, but still calm, and I involuntarily lifted my face to the sky.

_Fuck._ I really did not want to speak with him. I had nothing to say. Absolutely nothing.

Irritated, I turned and glared. "Yeah, what do you want?"

The nervous drum of fingers against metal gave him away. Jasper stared down at his hands and his features twisted with what I could only call regret. "It's been a while, huh? The last time we spo-…"

"Stop," I grated. I could feel heat rising up my neck again and my fists balled and squeezed. "I really don't feel like rehashing any of this old shit with you. You said what you needed to and I did the same. There is _nothing_ I want to discuss with you."

"Look, I'm sorry for all that, okay," he shot back before I could interrupt again. "I said some shit I shouldn't have and I've regretted it ever since. I was angry and I was so damned miserable I didn't know what the hell I was saying. I didn't mean it. You need to know that."

His words punched me in the gut and left me staggering. I wasn't prepared for this at all. I could deal with arrogance, condescension, or even hatred, but not regret, not remorse, and not apology. I was spinning already and I knew my limits. If this conversation didn't stop, I'd either fall apart or break his face. I needed composure and quiet, and more than anything, in that moment, I wanted to guzzle one of the bottles sitting on my counter at home. I wanted _numb_.

My own voice sounded hollow and weary as it answered him. "Yes, you did, and you were right."

Pale gray stared at me in wide surprise. His lips contorted and his fingers dug into rusted-out steel in white knuckled strain. "No, no I wasn't. I had no right. And I lost more than her that night because I couldn't keep myself together. Are you doing any better? Emmett said tha-…"

_Escape._ I had to leave before I buckled and broke. I didn't want to hear this. I needed to escape all of this shit.

I took a deep breath and bit back the venom that threatened to spill out. Jerking the door open, I exhaled quietly, "Bye, Jasper."

**~.~.~**

From the lowered tailgate of her old truck, we stared at the bright red front door to her house. For at least ten minutes, we said nothing, instead choosing to sit side by side in silence. While it wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet that I'd come to appreciate around Bella, I couldn't say that it was tense either. It was just _silence_. Realizing that my earlier behavior likely warranted some explanation, I still didn't know what to say or what to do. But strangely, Bella hadn't forced me to do anything at all, so I hadn't tried to explain myself.

Like now, little had been said on the ride home. We hadn't stopped for lunch and I'd pushed her truck as fast as it could safely manage without jarring the cargo in the back. Emotionally spent, I'd retreated into blankness and void, only interrupted by the necessary flicks of my wrist on the wheel and the shifting of gears on the column. I'd assumed that the moment my door slammed shut that Bella would have peppered me with questions, or at least accused me of being the very prick I was. But thankfully, she did neither, instead allowing me to settle my nerves in my own space and time. So for just over an hour, I sat mute and emotionless, listening to the rickety grumble of the truck's engine and staring straight ahead at the streaking double yellow line. And in my periphery, I vaguely registered Bella contentedly gazing out of the window, thinking God only knew what, only periodically peeking over at me.

After a few minutes, Bella leaned back on her palms, still staring at the door, and tilted her head as if calculating some complex mathematical equation. The corners of my lips lifted involuntarily as I watched the twitch of her lips and the relaxed, child-like swinging of her legs above the ground. Where my shoulders hunched forward, tired and drained, hers were square and open. Everything about her spoke of a peace of mind that I couldn't fathom.

When my gaze shifted to the side yard, I could see Garrett peeking around the corner, ears perked, tail swishing, and pale pink tongue lolling out of the side his mouth. He was curious why we were here and not moving, why Bella hadn't gone over to pet him, and it was perfectly obvious that he was about thirty seconds from stupidly crossing the underground boundary line Bella had buried. It was uncanny how the animal seemed to know exactly where that line was, that hidden point where if he crossed, he'd be jolted. _At least he doesn't bark at me anymore_, I thought.

Shifting back to the door, I noticed Bella staring up at me. From the furrow of her brow and the way her lips twisted up and to the side, either that mathematical equation was solved or she'd had enough of my silent treatment and was preparing to attack. Preparing for the onslaught, the muscles in my shoulders tightened.

Just as I was just opening my mouth to cut her off at the pass, she blurted out, "Edward, I don't know if I can help you."

And like that, whatever calm I'd achieved on the ride home began slipping. But I wasn't slipping into fire and anger at her ridiculous notion of 'helping me'; this was more than that and this was aching, the feeling of losing something I didn't know I had. I heard the words she didn't say – that she wanted nothing more to do with me. It was a weight on my chest and a blindfold drawing over my eyes. This wasn't a sudden blow, but rather was like a dull knife slowly dragging down my mid-section, digging deeper with each inch that passed. And I couldn't for the life of me figure out why my body suddenly felt heavy.

I felt old. I felt loneliness creeping back, and I realized just how much I'd allowed this woman to affect me. Without even knowing what she was doing, without even _me_ realizing it, she'd somehow wormed her way into my day-to-day life and distracted me. Miserably, I acknowledged that these last couple of weeks – even with the trips and falls and sheer mortification I experienced on a regular basis – were the best I'd had in four years. And I'd fucked it all up just like I told her I would.

I sighed the sigh of the weary and pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping to stem the rush and the abrupt throbbing of my head. I knew I'd fuck this up. I warned her. I warned myself, but I hadn't listened.

"That's fine, Bella. I don't need your help," I breathed, looking down, half at her, half at the carpet of green beyond.

I wanted to drink. For the second time today, I just wanted to drink until I passed out so that I wouldn't have to face whatever _this_ was.

Bella's nose scrunched in confusion, and in the corner of my eye, I caught her pulling at the frayed edge of her sleeve – a habit I'd noticed she assumed when she was trying make sense of something I'd said.

"What? Of course you do. You can't lift that thing by yourself."

I sat there, dumbly staring at her, trying to comprehend the words she's just voiced. "What?" I garbled, nearly shouting and feeling a hell of a lot more confused than she looked. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Her lips dropped in surprise and she hastily pushed a stray hair behind her ear. "_Me?_ What are _you_ talking about?"

_Damn this woman to hell! Damn her and damn me! I'm a fucking wreck and I can't handle this – I can't handle... her._

"I don't know," I mumbled, at once feeling like an absolute fool. My face felt like it was on fucking fire.

"_I'm_ talking about this heavy ass wardrobe. I saw you and Jasper loading this thing. And I don't think I'm strong enough to carry my half. Especially not up the stairs. I don't know what to do. We need a third person."

A manic, high-pitched chuckle escaped my throat, earning me a look that blatantly said 'what the hell is wrong with you?' Half laughing and half panting, I dry washed my face and groaned into my palms, "Are you serious?"

Her eyes darted to mine, and I wanted to kiss that perplexed pucker between her eyes.

"Um, yeah? I guess I should have thought about that before I bought it." Her lips turned down into an unhappy frown. "I don't suppose you want me to call Jake, huh?"

My mind spinning a mile per minute, I immediately decided that no, I most assuredly did not want her to call _Jacob_, never mind her earlier dismissal of him. Considering the roller coaster ride I was still trying to exit, I definitely did not need to deal with him and his smarmy ass. Unfortunately, there were few alternatives. But thinking quickly, I knew that I did have one other person I could call.

"Gimme a sec," I said gruffly, pulling out my phone. "I'll get someone over here."

I was surprised when Emmett answered on the first ring. I'd assumed that he would have put me through the same paces through which I always put him – namely, I had anticipated on having to call at least twice before he picked up. It would have served me right.

"Edward?" he answered, no other greeting, and his voice was lit with anxious trepidation. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?"

"Hey to you, too," I muttered, understanding that Emmett was likely more stunned by my call than I was in that I was dialing his number. I never called him. _Ever. _Of course, he assumed something was wrong.

"Okay… hey? What's up?" He still sounded unsure, suspicious.

I glanced down at Bella and shook my head at my own idiocy.

"Nothing much. Have you and Rose moved yet?" That I didn't know this was embarrassing evidence as to how detached and how alienated I was from my family, a failure on which I tried to not focus at the moment.

"Sort of," he replied. "We're actually at the new place right now. Rose wanted to hand-carry the dishes and pictures."

My cheeks puffed out as I geared myself up to ask. Over and over, I told myself that Emmett was a far better alternative than Jacob Black. Any day of the week, he was the better option, and if that meant I had to deal with the ribbing and guilt trip that would surely follow, so be it.

"Do you have maybe an hour or so?"

"Huh?"

"Look, Bella bought a wardrobe and I kind of helped her get it home. But there's no way in fuck we're getting it up the stairs in her house by ourselves. I was, well, wonde-"

A boisterous guffaw cut in before I could finish. "You want me to help you carry furniture? You are calling me to help you move shit? Wait, is this the same Bella from the diner? The cute dark haired girl?"

I huffed loudly, purposefully telling him to knock it off. I knew precisely where he was heading. "Yeah, whatever. So, can you help, or what?"

"Of course," he answered, still laughing. "When should we come over?"

Overhead, the clouds were thick and ominously dark, and I knew we had little time before the imminent downpour. Inhaling, I could even smell the rain, that humid freshness of cleansed air, mixed in with evergreens and summer foliage.

"Now, if you can. I think we've got maybe thirty or forty minutes before the clouds let loose."

"Be there in twenty," he returned before the line went dead.

Turning, I slid the phone back in my pocket and explained to a very amused Bella, "Okay, problem solved. The former linebacker and muscle-head brother is on his way."

"Twenty minutes. I heard. He actually sounded _excited?_"

I chuckled, imagining the self-pleased grin Emmett was surely sporting, undoubtedly at my expense. "Yeah, he's always up for anything where he can show off his brawn. He'll likely give me hell and call me a girl for needing the help."

"Well, I'm the girl. I'm the one who can't lift her half," Bella shot back, her own smile stretching across her face.

When I leaned back, placing my palm next to hers, mimicking her pose, her feet stopped swinging and her amusement faded. There was an unanticipated ring of sincerity in her voice that startled me. "Thanks, Edward. I didn't mean for this whole ordeal to turn into something unpleasant for you." And I knew that suddenly, we weren't talking about Emmett or three hundred pound blocks of wood.

"It's all right," I lied, as I felt her the tip of her little finger brush against my skin. Her hand scooted closer still until her fingers curled over mine, enveloping the top of my hand in warmth. I noticed that she did this – _touched_ me – with increasing frequency, somehow knowing that while I'd never admit it and did not have the wherewithal to initiate it myself, my body craved the unfamiliar comfort of touch. _Her_ touch.

"No, it wasn't all right," she countered softly. "You were not _all right_. You were livid in the store. You knew Jasper from before?"

I sucked in a deep breath, buying time and trying to regulate the abrupt up-tick in my heart rate. I tried to look away but I couldn't because she was staring right at me, right through me and all of my pretenses.

"Yeah, you could say that I knew him. It's a long story. It's complicated," I hedged, my voice barely above a whisper. The slight tremors of unleashed emotion – some mixture of resigned guilt, anger, and regret – were already building, waiting for an outlet.

"Well, we've got twenty minutes to start with."

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Something I Can Never Have_, by Nine Inch Nails


	18. The Smile That I've Never Shown Before

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**My pre-reader, BilliCullen, and Beta-lady, Scooterstale, are just plain awesome. Thank you for everything you do.**

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_**The Smile That I've Never Shown Before**_

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"We were best friends growing up and then roommates in college."

If I hadn't been so intently focused on Bella's expression, I wouldn't have noticed the nearly imperceptible lift of her brows or the subtle twitch of her lips. To any one else looking at her, I might have just said that the grass was green or that it rained in Forks. But no, I caught her by surprise and I caught her attempt at hiding it.

I was shocked by how easily I spoke the words, how quickly they'd quietly tumbled out of my mouth, revealing a past I always tried so hard to repress. I hadn't intended on telling her, nor did I particularly want to detail anything related to that night, but for some reason, her openness and pointed question and expectation of being answered stole my sense of reason, and I found myself just _talking_. To her, to myself, to the trees, I wasn't sure.

The breeze shifted, whipping the ends of her ponytail and sending a wave of light perfume across my face. The smell of her mixed with the warm outside air was somehow relaxing, soothing almost, or maybe just familiar. So I breathed it in, filling my nostrils and lungs with hints of spring flowers I couldn't name, and waited for her to reply. Or maybe I was waiting for her to push me. When she didn't speak, instead only dipping her head in an unspoken request to continue, I sighed, both in resignation and, perhaps, in relief, and looked down the curve of the road to where the asphalt disappeared into the surrounding forest. My gaze fixed to the dark mouth of the cavern-like canopy of trees stretching across the highway, the branches and leaves obscuring virtually all light. The road north lead to the mountains, and I knew that within that dark tunnel of trees, the pavement narrowed and climbed and was littered with sharp twists and blind bends.

When I spoke, my voice sounded hollow and flat to me, soft and low, just barely audible over the gush of blood I could hear in my ears. "Jasper and Maria dated – Maria was my younger sister… I doubt I've told you her name. She was twenty-two then. He was my age… so six years older. Actually, they more than dated; they were engaged, but they hadn't set a date yet. They were waiting to see where she could get a job.

"He…I knew Jasper, knew him since the first day we moved into town. From that day were as thick as thieves. We played baseball together, Eagle Scouts, football, half-drunk camping trips, all of it, all the way through high school and into college." A ghost of a nostalgic smile touched my lips, recalling the way his mother had yelled at us both the time she found out that we'd been jumping off the cliffs down at La Push. "Us, Emmett, and then a couple of other guys… we were pretty much inseparable – always doing stupid shit, too. You know, the stuff that gives mothers of teenage boys early heart attacks.

"When Jasper and I got to Dartmouth, though, especially the last two years, he really let loose – tried about everything, new girl every week, you name it. It was insane. I'd always been the one getting him in trouble, egging him on and shit, but once we moved away, everything flipped, and I somehow turned into the responsible one. College was… well, college. I don't know how, but somehow, we both ended up moving back to Washington. To be honest, after rooming with him in school, I'd thought that he would have moved somewhere bigger, faster.

"Anyway, I knew what he'd done and who he'd done. So when I found out that he'd run into Maria one afternoon in Seattle and that they'd started seeing each other, I wasn't too happy about it. I…I just always felt like I had to protect her. I'd always done that – protect her, I mean. It was expected of me growing up. And I didn't trust him – hell, I didn't trust anyone with her. And I didn't think he deserved her. Maria was just so young and headstrong, and she was so naïve. I thought he was all wrong for her and that he'd ending up hurting her." I paused for a second, thinking, watching the shadow of a passing overhead cloud creep across the lawn. "Fuck, for a while I thought she was with him just to dick around with me. She used to do that kind of shit – piss me off just because she could get away with it."

"Did he love her?" Bella asked softly. The tips of her fingers gently brushed the tops of mine in small, calming circles; it was an action of comforting, of one person lending strength, something I hadn't had in a long time. It felt so foreign, and with each pass, my skin erupted in waves of goose bumps and light tremors that I couldn't hope to hide.

I swallowed as I thought about her question, remembering back to the times when I'd seen them together. Looking through the crystal lens of time and regret, it was so easy to see, so clear. Jasper _had_ been different with her, always following her around with his eyes, always checking to make sure she was comfortable or warm or to see if she was tired, calling to ask if he could see her, never letting her open her own damned door. And her eyes used light up like the brightest sunny day when he took her in his arms. They couldn't get enough of each other.

"So…Yeah, he did. More than anything. And she loved him," I whispered, recalling our last Easter dinner when two of them held hands under the table like two love-struck fourteen year olds.

When I closed my eyes, I could feel the sting of heat, salt, and sadness, wanting nothing more than to turn back the hands of time. "Her death almost killed him. Almost killed everyone. He blamed me. Every time he looked at me, I could see it in his eyes. One night it was all too much. He was drunk and I was still on pain meds so I wasn't entirely lucid. One thing led to another and we just beat the shit out of each other, both of us trying to destroy the memories that were swallowing us whole. But they all blamed me. They were right. It was my fault. I killed her. It should have been me, not her."

For a long moment I said nothing else, my declaration looming out in the open like an overfilled balloon waiting to explode at the slightest pressure. I didn't know what was going through Bella's mind – surely she could see the monster, the evil in me – but she didn't reply. She just… sat there, looking at me. I'd expected her to hotly refute my statement, to tell me I was wrong and that it wasn't my fault like any normal person would have done. That was the norm; no one ever spoke the truth, because admitting that I was right meant admitting that I was nothing more than a murderer who stole the life of his own blood. And that was too _uncomfortable_. People always shied away from accusation, even if it was fact; it was _impolite_, something whispered in dark corners but just not spoken aloud. I wished that she had disagreed with me because then I could have snapped back at her and I could have felt the comfort of anger and resentment at her ignorance and good manners. I could have shoved her away just like the rest of them, resigned her as nothing more than one more person who could never understand, one more person who I could avoid.

But she didn't say a fucking word, and her fingers kept tracing the same circling path, widening out to include the back of my palm and wrist, and a dense, expanding knot grew in my chest, pushing against my lungs and sternum, constricting my airways.

"How did she die?" Her voice was as peaceful as the summer breeze. There was no accusation, no judgment; it was just… a question.

"Car accident," I managed, gulping for air. Every breath I took dragged across my tongue, refusing to fill my chest. I could taste the bitterness of rising bile, its heat searing my throat as the memories crowded my mind. Grimacing, fighting to maintain coherency and grounding myself to fight the threat of remembrance, I stared at a strand of ivy wending its way along Bella's porch rails, outlining and following every curl and every trail of its vines.

"You were in the car?"

I looked down and drowned in warm, liquid eyes and there was no hope of hiding the grief in my stricken expression. Memory overpowered me, overwhelming me, and I could feel my face contorting as the scent of blood and gasoline roared in my head. The old incisions along my ribs burned like they were being sliced open anew and an anvil lay across my chest.

My eyes closed, and it sounded like my voice was booming, reverberating and bouncing off the trees and the sheet metal of her truck. "Driving."

Almost immediately, I felt warmth snake around my back, reaching all the way around to my side and then locking around my torso tightly, as if trying to physically hold me together. My eyes went wide, but it still took me a moment to grasp that the gentle circling across the back of my hand had stopped and that Bella's arm now encircled _me_. _She_ was hugging _me_, and I could feel each one of her fingers splayed out and pressed into the dips between my ribs. She held on, fiercely holding me, making no move to do anything else, and with each passing second, the stench of death and gasoline evaporated. That warmth, that kind of touch, so much more than her hand in mine – it was staggering, unexpected, and at once too much and not enough. Some part of me screamed, terrified and confused, wanting to pull back and escape. But some other part of me wanted to grab onto her with both arms and squeeze her and never stop because it felt so fucking _good_.

Tentatively, I inhaled a shaky breath and lifted my arm to settle it across the slight span of her shoulders, unsure if that action was permissible or not. But right now, for just one brief instant, I wanted _more_ – _more_ than the pathetic life of misery and solitude that I was leading and _more_ than feeling the constant pangs of torn-open memory and guilt. And the part of me that craved _more_ told the frightened, screaming part to shut the fuck up and give in for once.

Bella didn't even flinch at my reciprocating action. As soon as my palm cupped her upper arm, she just slid closer, side against side, thigh against thigh, and brought her other arm around my stomach, invading my whole being with the hum of her body heat. When her face buried into my shirt, resting against my chest, I almost sighed, feeling more warmth, more _something_. Of its own accord, my head dropped and my cheek sank into the fragrant, silken strands of her hair. And I could _breathe_. For that fleeting, all-too-fragile moment in time, even if I didn't deserve it, it felt like my mind and body could be well.

**~.~.~**

"Fucking hell, Edward, lift your end up!" Emmett growled from below me. "I'm already carrying most of this. You could at least help a little bit."

"Shut up, _Em_. It's not my fault you're taller than me," I huffed irritably. We swayed too far to the left and my hand suddenly found itself pinched between the back of the wardrobe and the wall. "Goddamnit! Go right!"

"It… lift now…has nothing to do…again… with being taller, _Eddie_. I'm just stronger than you. Admit it. I bet Bella here can bench press more than you. Girl!" he taunted, erupting in a fit of wheezing laughter.

Propping the top end of the wardrobe on the top of my knee, I paused and glared over the railing down to where Bella and Rosalie were standing – _supervising_, as Rose had deemed it. Bella choked back her own laugh, trying to muffle her enjoyment at my expense in the crook of her elbow. But her grin threatened to take over her entire face, effectively countering all her efforts not to laugh out loud. Grumbling, I called down, "I told you. What did I say? Didn't I tell you he'd say that?"

A shift in weight nearly sent me back first into the steps above me. "Enough with the flirting, Eddie-boy. You can do that shit when we're through. I know you think I'm the man of steel and all, but my shoulders do have a limit. And since you don't seem to want to help, we…"

"Emmett, do you ever shut up?" an exasperated yet affectionate voice called from below. I doubted that I'd ever been so grateful for an interruption because my face was burning hot with embarrassment and I had the sudden urge to bolt. _Through an upstairs window if necessary_. It wasn't just for his jab – that I could deal with easily – but more so, it was due to the humiliating recollection of the amused yet perplexed expression that Emmett had worn when he and Rosalie had pulled up in the driveway only to find Bella and me with her arms still wrapped around my waist. He'd said nothing when I'd nearly fallen off the tailgate trying to pull away, but his shit eating grin and shifting eyebrows had said more than enough.

"Yes, _Ro-sie_," Emmett laughed. "Fine, three more steps til the top. On three… one… two… three… up!"

Five minutes later, we all stood admiring our handiwork. Or rather, Bella and Rosalie scrutinized the centering and placement, Emmett smiled and gloated, and being the fool that I was, I took the opportunity to look around the room, my earlier embarrassment momentarily forgotten.

Décor-wise, her bedroom matched what I'd seen below. The furniture was all solid, darker woods with fine detailing that told me she appreciated the look and the feel of the craft. I'd known all that, however, just by her reactions in the antique store and the fact that she recognized the workmanship of my own pieces. She'd yet to paint up here so the walls were still a boring 'apartment beige' – I assumed the upstairs would be next on her list – and there were no prints or paintings to color the space. But to offset the starkness of the blinds and the walls, she'd hung gauzy white curtains that loosely swagged across the tops of the windows and matched the bed. It felt wrong looking at her bed with its fluffy white comforter, white sheets, and what had to have been a half dozen white pillows, but the whole image oozed serenity and peace. Despite the similarities in palette to my own, her space was warm and inviting somehow, like her own personal hideaway. Like an idiot, my mind wandered, debating what color we'd be painting on her walls. Maybe we'd paint it a pale blue or ocean green, something tranquil, something _Bella_.

"Edward, are you coming?"

"What?" I started, only vaguely understanding what was being asked.

Emmett chuckled and winked behind Rosalie's back. Silently, he mouthed, "You and Bella?" And I wanted to sink into the floor.

_Fuck. Fuck no. Not this. Not from him, _I wanted to scream_. _I wasn't ready for questions like this because I didn't know myself how I felt about her. Maybe we were friends, but even that I knew would be short lived because at some point, it would be too much and I would ruin it.

"It's nothing like that. Don't even go there," I mouthed back, my blood pressure already rising. For a split second, I stupidly wished that I'd said yes when Bella offered to call Jacob.

He just rolled his eyes and walked away. And I warred between wanting to throw him out the window and wanting to disappear as I silently trailed behind them down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bella turned to Emmett, her smile almost glowing. "Thank you so much for coming over and helping out. There's no way I could have carried that."

Emmett and Rosalie answered at once, "No problem at all." Rosalie threaded her arm through Emmett's and continued for them both, a curious light shining in the ice blue of her eyes. There was a faint undercurrent of something else in her voice, and her smile was deliberate, as if she was trying to communicate more than her words. "Anytime. Especially now that we're close by. You have my number, right?"

"Do you guys want to stay for dinner? We can order something? Or let me at least get you something to drink," I heard Bella offer. The urge to hide, to go home, to just escape surged and I gripped the banister to hold myself in place. While the last hour hadn't been the nightmare I'd foreseen, I knew it was but a matter of time; pleasant times with my brother were few and far between. And after seeing Jasper after all of this time, and more so, slicing open my wounds for Bella to see, left me drained and weak.

Rosalie's focus on Bella faltered for a split second when her eyes met mine. Her free hand moved to the swell of her abdomen. "We really can't stay, right, Emmett? I have more dishes to arrange and I'm not feeling that well. Maybe next time?"

I couldn't see Emmett's face, but I saw the subtle lift and fall of his shoulders before he tenderly leaned over and kissed Rose's temple. "I didn't know you weren't feeling well, babe. Let's get you to a couch. We can swing by somewhere and grab something."

He spun around and the sincerity and warmth of his smile shocked me. "Thanks for calling me, Edward. It was good seeing you again. Let me know if Bella buys any more furniture." There was more there, a hitch in his voice, but he didn't say anything more, and I wasn't sure what that meant. As they walked to the door, he motioned toward Bella's kitchen and chuckled, "I'll hold you to that offer, Bells! Next time."

"Rose, if you need help with anything, let me know, okay?" Bella called out. I didn't hear what was returned, but Bella shook her head as if in amused disbelief.

And like that, we were alone again and I had no fucking idea what to say or do after what had occurred this afternoon. With Emmett and Rosalie there and having something to do, I'd avoided this. But now, I stood in the foyer at the bottom of the steps, anxiously palming the back of my neck, feeling like I was about to shatter. A faint layer of sweat coated my skin, partly from moving the furniture but mostly from the uncertainty and tension that suddenly blanketed the room. It was suffocating and I was furious with myself for allowing this, for answering her questions, for not keeping my goddamned mouth shut.

"So, I guess I should go, too…," I muttered, looking around, trying to find a safe place for my eyes to rest, avoiding the pity and revulsion I expected to see once she'd had time to actually think.

As fast as the words were out of my mouth came her reply. "I don't think so," Bella scoffed. Her tone was indignant, as if I'd insulted her. Internally, I barricaded myself to fend off any continuance of our earlier conversation. That topic was done, sealed, and not to be opened again. I couldn't stomach that again. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her step toward me, and my insides twisted and cringed.

"Hey," she continued, far more softly and with none of the indignation I'd just heard, almost as if she were approaching a skittish animal. I wondered how my expression looked on the outside, if it mimicked the inside. I chanced a look and found none of the disgust I'd expected, none of the pity. Instead, she was _smiling_. Before I could dodge her, she reached out and her fingertips ran down my bare forearm. A shiver of recognition shot down my spine, and it took all of the restraint I had not to lean into her touch.

_Smiling_, she explained, "You can't go just yet. I promised you lunch and we never got around to it. So, let me make it up to you. I'll fix you dinner and I won't make you paint tonight. How's that?"

Every brain cell I had told me get the fuck out of there; they were practically buzzing in disapproval, knowing I'd shared too much with this woman, that I'd laid too much down, that I was too exposed. And my throat and quivering muscles groaned for relief in the form of single malt. But countering all the signals to flee, something else buried deep in my being hummed every time she touched me or called me out for my shit or just fucking sat there saying nothing at all. My skin tingled, remembering the way she had wrapped herself around me this afternoon. Somehow, with Bella, things were different. I didn't feel so alone. Somehow, she made it so that I could hold my head above water and not drown, even though the water was deep and I couldn't see the bottom. For some reason, she made me want to swim instead of sink.

So I gave in, held my breath, and jumped.

"No ham sandwiches," I mumbled, flipping my hand around and catching her trailing fingers in mine.

Her fingers locked between mine and her lips twitched before blinding me with her grin.

"Fine, turkey then."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _So Far Away_, by Staind


	19. The Smile When You Tore Me Apart

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Two ladies fix this fic, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. Thank you for your patience.  
**

* * *

_**The Smile When You Tore Me Apart**_

* * *

Ink and ivory glared at me through the bottom of the glass. Only a sip of my scotch remained, less than half a finger, just enough to shade the parchment a warm, autumn amber. I stared at the contents, avoiding the letters below by studying the way the liquid caught and held a slim strip of sun pouring through the open blinds. The sunlight made it almost glow, turning ocher into something richer somehow, like a sweet, dark honey. But this honey smelled of smoke and sherry and summer barley fields.

I wasn't wasted, but I'd already drunk more than I'd intended. Initially – naively – I'd only wanted to consume enough to settle my nerves and resolve, but the taste and, more importantly, the sensations that consumption achieved, were too tempting to refuse. With every drink, lush warmth invaded my mouth and slid down my throat, melting my limbs and chest as the alcohol spread and coursed through my bloodstream. And with that soothing, spongy heat came the muted thoughts and numbness I sought.

Lost in blurry stupor and in the faint tingle buzzing underneath my skin, my forefinger circled the lip, noting the smooth hardness of the crystal and recalling how it always felt so cool against my fever. Lazily, I tipped the tumbler to balance it on its bottom edge and slowly rolled it back and forth, watching through half closed eyes as the scripted black lettering warped and contracted through my transitory golden lens.

_Dr. and Mrs. Carlisle Cullen…  
__Request the pleasure of your company…  
__On Saturday, the twenty-first of August…  
__Two thousand and ten…  
__At seven o'clock in the evening…_

Like always, I was stalling, ignoring the calls and deleting the emails, seeking to postpone the inevitable. The idea of being in the same room with so many people and being expected to put on a 'happy face' was simply nauseating, not to mention it was something I wasn't convinced I had the wherewithal to accomplish. I didn't own a 'happy face' and I wasn't sure I could even pretend.

Knowing my mother and her tendency toward extravagance, there would be more people in that one ballroom than I'd spoken to in half a decade. There would be my father's co-workers and friends and family, all of whom would either know me or know more about me than I could comfortably abide. Not a single soul did I have a desire to see – family included – and I certainly had no inclination to spend an evening reminiscing a past in which I lived against my will already. After all this time, they would believe the past to be past, that the horror had been forgotten and that the broken parts of me would have been healed. They wouldn't understand. They would expect to see the handsome, successful son of the handsome, successful doctor. They would expect laughter and flashing grins, proud handshakes and proud hugs. They would expect to see someone I wasn't – someone who I didn't even begin to know how to be.

I closed my eyes and I already hated the looks they'd give me. I hated the quiet whispers and the way they would skirt sensitive topics once they caught the lines of stress and age across my forehead, the tired slump of my shoulders, and the ashen circles of insomnia. I hated sitting across from them at the white blanketed table with its pretty glowing candles and fragrant flowers, faking a smile and pretending to pay attention while I ate cake I couldn't taste and sipped black coffee that burned my tongue.

I hated being the pariah, yet I could never envision myself being anything other than that. I had earned this life. And I wasn't going to the fucking party. I couldn't. I couldn't stand hearing laughter and seeing the smiles on the faces of my family, knowing that one of us was missing. In this case, two missing was better than one.

Of course, my father would be insulted. My mother would be heartbroken, and Emmett would be furious. But after so many disappointments, I wondered if it really mattered. This would just be one more failure on top of the mountain of countless others, one more time I'd disappointed them. I knew that in the end, it would be better for us all.

My fingers fluttered across the number keys, nervous and sloppy, hoping that she wouldn't pick up. Voicemail was my prayer – the coward's prayer. Because when my eyes flickered to the card that had accompanied the invitation, I saw gray, plaintive sorrow written in my mother's flowing cursive, and I really didn't want to deal with the guilt of hearing it as well.

_I just want you to find happiness and peace. And I want you not to be alone. I miss you so much. Please call me. _

Four rings in, and my plea was answered.

There was a computerized beep and then, the soft, genteel drawl I could hear even in my sleep. "Hello. You've reached Esme Cullen. I'm sorry I'm unavailable to take your call, but please leave a message, and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you and good day."

"Hey, Mom," I fumbled, trying to articulate through the slur of one drink too many. "I'm calling about Dad's party. I, well, you know how things are… Look, I just…I don't kn-"

Before I could finish, there was a click and then the rush of feminine excitement, a sound bordering on what sounded like _joy, _as she answered, "Edward? Son?"

My eyes screwed shut and silently, I spat a dozen epithets, mostly directed at myself. I was a dick for not calling or answering her mail, even when I'd sworn to myself that I would. Even more, I despised myself for what I would do to her moment of misplaced happiness. There was no cause, no rational reason, for her to speak to me like this, especially when all she ever received from me was pain.

With a single puff of my lungs, I exhaled their contents, depressed in my inability to be the son my mother deserved. "Hey, Mom."

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you called. I'm sorry I didn't pick up sooner."

A bark of a laugh tripped from my lips, incredulous in the irony of her statement. "Stop it. I was leaving you a voicemail anyway."

"How are you, Edward? Is everything okay?" Her voice and words turned hesitant, breathy almost, spoken from the disquiet that persisted when two people were once close but no longer spoke. Though beneath that hesitancy, I could still hear bubbling, a restrained need to burst and say and declare more.

Stalling yet again, I glanced to the ceiling and stared at the flitting white pattern of reflected crystal dancing from one wall to the other. I lifted my tumbler, flicking my wrist, and the shining stars spun out of control, sputtering in a hundred different directions. "I'm fine. Just busy and all. You know how it is."

Softly, she answered, a slight tremor marring her tone, "Emmett said that he came over to help you move some furniture last weekend. He said that you looked… good – healthy. And that you were smiling."

Internally, I cringed, at once both fuming and curious that my brother felt the need to tell my parents about such an inane and unimportant hour of my life. Before I could even fully process that thought, however, I realized that whatever he had told them pleased her.

_Brilliant, Edward, fucking brilliant. Now, just take a fucking knife to her heart why don't you? You selfish fucking prick._

But the future sights of cheerful twinkling lights, bowties, and chattering people invaded and overrode my shame, and I shot back the remainder in my glass to steel my determination.

More firmly than I'd intended, I started, "Mom, look, I don't think I'm going to…"

"Please, Edward," she cut in, wedging herself in between my words to stop my decline. "Don't…" Her voice was little more than a whimper, and I could see the lines of her forehead creasing – a mirror of mine – as surely as if we were in the same room. A heavy pause sank my stomach, its contents suddenly boiling and crashing against the walls of my abdomen. I could taste alcohol and acid when though the line, there was a telltale sniff and the anguish of a muffled cry. "Please. For me? Just an hour. You don't have to be there the whole time. I just want to see you…"

My insides felt sick and a toxic blend of guilt, anger, and sadness rocked through my chest. Rationally I knew that since she'd birthed me, by nature, she was supposed to be concerned about my mental and physical well-being. But I was no worthy son, so for the life of me, I couldn't understand why she cared so goddamned much, because all I ever did anymore was cause her grief and tears. Jerking the phone away from my ear, I scrubbed my face, trying to decide which misery was worse. Another muted, wet sniffle answered my debate, cracking my resolve, and before I could finish thinking the words, they spilled out of my mouth. "You didn't let me finish," I huffed, gripping the armrest beside me to absorb and leash my discomfort. "I'm coming to Dad's party. I just can't stay long, okay?"

A surprised, shaky breath met my ears, and somehow, with nothing more than the impetus of my stupid promise, in that swift uptake of air, I could hear the return of her earlier hidden joy. The pitch was higher and I could hear the thick remnants of shed tears, but it was there in her soft reply. "Thank you, Edward. So much. I can't wait to see you. I've – _we've_ – missed you more than you can ever know.

"What can I do to make it easier for you? I know this isn't your idea of a good time. I know you don't want to be there. Let me make it as easy as possible. Whatever you want and I'll do it."

I laughed because I could think of nothing that could perform that magic, but she took it as willingness.

There was vibrancy building as she rambled, and I buried my eyes in the palm of my hand, furious with myself but relieved that a sliver of that sickening guilt had subsided. "I can seat you with Emmett and Rose? Or with whomever you want. You can come late or early… just whatever you want, Edward. We just want you there for however long you can be there."

"I'm fine, Mom. You don't need to do anything special for me. This is Dad's night." I sighed. "I'll let you know, okay?"

"Do…" she stuttered. Quieter, more subdued, she went on, "If you want to bring anyone, you know you don't even have to ask, right?"

I cursed Emmett anew because I knew then that he'd divulged more than I'd initially feared. Simultaneously, however, a distracting warmth that I'd been trying to ignore for the last week rippled though my body as my muscles recalled the pressure of slender arms wrapped around my waist. The reemergence of long-extinguished tactile longing was something I couldn't hope to reconcile at this point, especially not with my mother. Rather than arguing or refuting her buried question, I merely sighed again and mumbled, "I doubt that will happen. But yeah, I know."

**~.~.~**

At five after ten, I found myself jumping over the silver-black reflection of an ankle-deep puddle of rainwater and then quickly bounding up the steps to Bella's front door to escape the downpour. After the less than pleasant discussion with my mother earlier in the afternoon, I'd collapsed within myself, completely oblivious to the external world. Only God knew how long I sat there in my chair in a mindless haze, trying to ignore the irritation and anxiety I knew would surely come, but at some point, I'd managed to drift off for a few hours at the encouragement of another round of liquid tranquilizer. Vaguely, I recalled yellow-bright streams of light through the windows, but when I awoke, the sun had departed and black clouds had rolled in, bringing along a hurricane-worthy torrent.

Casting a wide spray, I shook my head out before reaching for the knocker. When my skin met cool brass, I groaned, finding the entire situation ludicrous. Here I was politely rapping on a door I owned, but more so, my presence was virtually a given as this – whatever _this_ was – was now routine. In fact, it was an odd night when I wasn't here. Coming to Bella's home each night had simply become something I just _did,_ and whether I was comfortable admitting it or not, I… _enjoyed_ it. Or at least I enjoyed it as much as I was capable. Though if I were honest, more accurately, I enjoyed spending time with _Bella_. There was some semblance of normalcy in our relationship – something I'd been denied, or perhaps, denied myself.

Because I was an emotionally crippled idiot, it'd taken me weeks to come to this conclusion, but standing in front of her door in the middle of the night and dripping wet, as anticlimactic as it was, I could admit it now – I _liked_ Bella. Just how much or in what capacity, I was still uncertain, but I _did_ like her. I looked forward to our discussions and I liked having someone around. I liked just being in the same room with her. Being around her made me forget – however temporarily – the demons that perpetually plagued my mind. Although, at the same time, those moments of reprieve gave me a glimpse at something that scared the shit out of me.

An unexpected and unexplainable sharp pang hit me square in the sternum and my breathing turned shallow as irrational fear began to build. But before my palm could make it to my chest, the door flung open and my wide eyes shot to the open square.

In the center, bathed in light from within the room behind her, stood Bella, grinning from ear to ear, her smile consuming her entire being. She was literally glowing – bouncing. For a moment, I just stood there gaping like a fool. Even without a single verbal cue, in less time than it took for me to blink, I knew that this was the happiest I'd ever seen her. It was written in the delicate crinkles by her eyes, the flushed dust of pink on her cheeks, and the energized, quivering fists balled up by her sides. She was radiant… _breathtaking_.

Seeing Bella like this – so indisputably _happy_ – that knife wound in my chest vanished, and without even knowing her delight's cause, my lips involuntarily curled up to copy hers. By my second breath, more than anything, I wanted to understand what could possibly cause whatever it was I was seeing. As soon as I opened my mouth to ask, however, my words were halted, as I was knocked backward by her weight suddenly crashing into me. Immediately – before I could even react – her arms were around my neck, squeezing and pulling herself closer.

"I got it!" she cried into the crook of my neck. While muffled and breathless, her voice matched the expression that had greeted me.

She was _jubilant_.

My curiosity took a back seat when warm, moist, breath tickled across my neck. The intimacy and proximity of her lips to my skin positively stunned me. Not really understanding her words or their source, I just stood there, intrigued and begging for some further explanation and at the same time, trying to make sense of my body's warring inclinations. Like always, when it came to this woman, I was split in two; half of me was petitioning to bolt while the other half wanted nothing more than to forget myself and feel.

Dumb and undecided, I waited in my rigid pose, scared to move. After a century of a second, I realized that the explanation for which I was waiting possibly would never come. Instead of continuing, Bella just held on to me and pressed her body tighter against mine, still vibrating in excitement. Once my brain acknowledged that she wasn't letting go, that this wasn't some quick embrace, my internal battle ended and my arms hesitantly wound themselves around her, tightening until the intensity of my embrace mirrored hers. Careful not to offend, my hands molded to her sides, my fingers spreading and sliding down, unable to resist the curve of her waist. Despite my mindfulness, however, even the most innocent of placement sent shockwaves of awakening to parts of me that'd long since been dormant.

I'd forgotten this.

And I'd _missed_ this.

And _this_ was oh-so-different from the sensation of her arms around me last weekend. Then, the motivation had been purely one of comfort as I'd laid bare my shame. This was not the same at all, and for a few seconds, my body relaxed into hers and just _enjoyed _something it thought it would never feel again.

Bella was so warm – _so, so warm_ – and in that flash of fire against my skin, my normal internal barrage of angry curses silenced, and everything else seemed fall away, blurring and unfocusing. Contentedly, I drowned in perfumed flower petals, warmth, and the almost too-pleasant pressure against my frame. Selfishly, I didn't want this to end. I wanted her to keep touching me and I wanted to touch her.

Eventually, after seconds or hours, she started to pull away, and my grip slackened with what I could only describe as disappointment. As she distanced herself, our eyes - mine fearful and hers fluid and deep enough to sink in - met and she paused just a few inches from my face. There was a flicker of something unspoken in that pause, something that made blood rush like a roaring river through my veins and made my stomach flip and somersault. As if in slow motion, her lips parted as her gaze darted to _my_ lips and then back up again to meet my stare, and I was abruptly assaulted with an almost violent urge to cover her mouth with mine.

As quickly as that urge surfaced, however, my brain caught up, and with a self-directed slur, I jerked upright. The nausea of anxiety swept through me, and unconsciously, I palmed the back of my neck, praying that whatever _that_ was would not be addressed and would instead be left to reside as a mere figment of my imagination. Because in that instant when I'd watched her shifting expression, I could have sworn that she'd wanted me to kiss her.

_Goddamnit, Edward! Impossible!_ I mutely berated.

Bella could _not_ have wanted that. Even if but for that brief instant she had wanted it, kissing her would have been a mistake and something that she would have inevitably regretted. It was bad enough that I was ignoring my own warnings of friendship. I wasn't ignorant, nor was I unaware of my behavior. I was a prick in every sense of the word and I was beyond emotionally unavailable. And I certainly didn't need any further complications in my life. Bella was too kind and too understanding, and she shouldn't have to deal with my shit. No one should shoulder that.

Apparently, never mind my own internal arguements and conclusions, Bella was unfazed by my retreat and just grabbed me by the hand and jerked me inside before I could resist.

As she pulled me through the living room, I finally found my voice and asked, "What did you get?"

She spun around and grinned again. "The job, silly! You are looking at the newest member of the faculty at Peninsula College!" Her shoulders straightened into a mocking pose of dignity.

I remembered our conversation from weeks ago when she'd told me that she'd applied. At once, I was both happy for her – because a blind man could see how much it meant to her – and at the same time, strangely deflated. When I looked around, taking in the partially finished downstairs, I couldn't prevent the sag of realization that my routine was about to be quashed, that just as I'd predicted, I could hold onto nothing.

"Congratulations, Professor Swan," I offered, trying to muster some semblance of enthusiasm.

Bella smirked at me, obviously seeing right through my attempts. With a mischievous wink, she laughed, "Don't think that this means that you get a break from our renovations, Cullen. We have tons left to do. I'm only part-time, too – three days a week and in the afternoons – at least until next semester, and I still expect your ass here every night. I might just adjust your hours a little, though."

I wanted to be angry with myself. But I couldn't, because like that, like an absolute fucking idiot, I was grinning right along with her.

**~.~.~**

"Tattoos?"

"What?" I sputtered, just barely catching the spray of soda from my mouth in my napkin before it shot across the table.

"God, Edward, don't be such a prude. Do you have a tattoo? It's not a hard question." Her eyes were dancing, entertained by my nervous reaction.

"No. No tattoos. You?" I managed, wiping residual liquid from my lips.

Bella sighed almost wistfully, "No, but I thought about it. More than once. When I was in high school, the whole around-your-belly-button thing was en vogue. I almost gave in. But then, Alice reminded me that bodies change with time and condition and that those particular tattoos might not look so hot later on."

"I don't see it," I countered seriously, trying and failing to imagine black swirls and stars along the pale skin of her midsection.

"Whatever," she answered, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. "I take it you have no piercings either?"

"Where the fuck are you getting these questions? No. Of course not."

She threw her head back and laughed. "I'm just joking with you, Edward. I never figured you to be a piercing and tattoo kind of guy. None for me either, by the way. Other than standard pierced ears."

"Fine," I huffed as I reached over to pick a corner off her brownie. I wouldn't admit it, but I was starving. My afternoon of scotch and no food had finally caught up, and after two hours of holding my arms over my head while I rolled the ceiling, I was dying.

"What's the dumbest thing you did in high school?" I asked.

A half-hearted smack landed across the back of my hand. "Hey! Hands off, you. Get your own."

I shrugged and grabbed the whole brownie from her plate. Laughing, I teased, "Your loss. You should eat faster. Like you said, I'm pathetic in the kitchen. What do you expect when you put dessert in front me?"

Shaking her head, still entertained or now annoyed I wasn't sure, she mumbled, "Firecrackers in mailboxes."

For the second time, I almost lost the contents of my mouth. "What?"

"Yeah, shut it. We were sixteen and Alice wanted to play some pranks on some of the cheerleaders. She didn't quite get that they wouldn't be home to enjoy her little stunt at ten at night on a Friday. And she almost took my thumb off, too.

"Okay, your turn. I'm pretty boring. What's your dumbest high school escapade? Let me guess… breaking and entering? That's a normal teenage boy thing to do, right?"

"No. Nothing like that. I was an angel," I chuckled, circling an imaginary halo over the top of my head.

Bella eyed me, pursing her lips to hold back her own giggle.

"I may have had a similar affection for fire. I may have accidentally lit a car on fire. A junker, of course, that had been abandoned out in the woods. Foolishly, I forgot about the tank still having gas in it."

Bella's expression was priceless, undoubtedly imagining the worst, and I wasn't about to dispel her visions of fireballs and flying debris. After a moment, I took another bite of her brownie and went on, "Although my parents might disagree since they never knew about that. They'd probably say cliff diving. But that's something all the kids do here at one point or another."

"Cliff diving?" Bella asked, curious.

"Yeah, down at La Push there's some pretty high rocks. There's a pool there that when the tide is right, it's deep and calm enough. Most kids jump off the lower rocks, but some like to show off by jumping from the top."

"Let me guess, you liked to show off."

"Yeah, I suppose I did," I murmured, staring at my grayed out reflection in the kitchen window. It was strange remembering those times. It felt like a hundred years had passed, but I could remember the details – the wind whipping through my hair, Jasper and Emmett howling with laughter, the sudden drop in my stomach as I fell for what had to have been forever, and then finally, the stab of ice hitting my bare skin – as clearly as if I'd jumped yesterday.

"It sounds fun," Bella replied softly. In the same window, I could see her watching me, looking at me as if she saw something I didn't know was there. It reminded me of the expression she'd worn on her front porch a few hours earlier, the one that made my skin tingle and tremble, the one that made me think she had wanted me to kiss her.

I swallowed uncomfortably and met her stare through the reflection. I wondered if I was insane, if I'd read more than was there. That was more likely the case than anything else, after all. Only half listening to myself, I replied, "It was. Nothing much else to do on weekends around here anyway."

Breaking my distraction, Bella snorted and agreed, her shoulders shaking in amusement, "No kidding. I can see where Forks could be boring. There's not a lot to do close by, unless you're into hiking and outdoorsy stuff. It's not like there are that many restaurants. God, I'd die for a good bookstore."

That unnerving intensity suddenly returned, and I could see questioning in her eyes and in the angle of her head. "Speaking of, I think I'm going to drive to Seattle one weekend soon."

It was as if lightning struck me and muzzled my brain. Of its own volition, my mouth started moving and I hadn't a prayer of stopping it. I barely recognized my own voice. "What are you doing two weeks from today?"

"Huh?" Her head cocked to the other side and she studied me as if I'd just spoken Greek.

My lungs constricted and I cursed myself for starting down this path. Dimly, I realized that I _could _back pedal and save myself, but my brain still hadn't wrestled my mouth to the ground. "Yeah, two weeks. I…there's a party for my dad's sixtieth. I think I told you that my family lives in Seattle now…I…" I stuttered, sounding more like a skittish fourteen-year-old boy than I ever had. I didn't know what had possessed me to ask her this – I hadn't even thought of the party until she'd mentioned Seattle. That night would surely be a disaster, more so if she were there.

I could only blame the entire situation on fatigue and those goddamned unexplainable sensations I'd felt when she'd wrapped her arms around my neck. Everything about tonight just confused the ever-loving fuck out of me, but in a rushed jumble, I exhaled, "Do you want to go?"

For a long moment, I couldn't look at her. I could barely stay seated as my thoughts were inundated with the need to run and escape. I was a damned idiot and like I knew I would, I'd fucked everything up. I knew it. When the silence had finally overwhelmed me, I peeked to my left, my heart in my stomach. Instead of irritation or disgust, I found Bella's features rearranged in quiet contemplation with one brow quirked.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she retorted, her voice full of something completely unrecognizable. But she was fucking smiling and I didn't know what to do or how to process the reasoning behind it.

"No. I am not."

Her brow arched even higher.

"Maybe… Fuck, I don't know," I half moaned, grimacing from the pain of humiliation. My fingers clawed my jeans, digging into my thighs. "If I am?"

Bella laughed softly and reached across the space between us to gently smooth back my hair. At the contact, I suppressed a shiver and resisted the compulsion to bury my face in my hands. I forced myself to keep my head up and I just stared at her, feeling crimson embarrassment climb up my neck to my cheeks. When she spoke, something boiled inside of me, something warm and excited – something I knew that I should be wary of but didn't want to think about.

A faint pink spread across her cheeks, leaving me a little less mortified and opening a floodgate of relief as she quietly accepted, "Then, yes. I'd love that."

.

.

* * *

**A/N: **Just for your reference, this chapter starts on Friday, August 6, so around a week after Edward helped Bella move the wardrobe and roughly two weeks until Carlisle's birthday party. Recall Bella moved in at the beginning of June. So, E and B have known each other for a little more than 2 months.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Angels_, by Within Temptation.


	20. Everyone Gets Scared

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for your magic. And, thank you to the lovely Bittenbee for the title/song suggestion. For you, m'dear.

* * *

_**Everyone Gets Scared**_

* * *

"Fuck this," I growled, slinging a stack of papers. The slick cover of a magazine on the bottom smacked against the wood and the entire mass slid across the length of the desk and over the edge. Black and white invoices mixed with brightly-inked junk mail and flew through the air, raining down in a jumbled mess, littering the floor.

I glared at the papers, livid and flexing my fist, so tempted to throw the phone in aggravation.

"Mr. Cullen, I'm sorry. They just aren't for sale. She won't sell no matter what I say."

"Then you are fired, Jenks. I told you to take care of it, and what did you do? Nothing. I don't have time to deal with you and your bullshit excuses. I'll just have to handle Peter myself. Finish out those last remaining orders if you're competent enough and that's it. We'll settle up and call it done."

Through the line, I could hear Jenks scrambling around, no doubt shell-shocked by my fury and lack of patience. Over the last few months, his office had grown too fast and his customer service had fallen by the wayside. Because he was one of my oldest suppliers and admittedly a decent guy, I'd given him more than his fair share of chances, but now, his excuses and flailing simply fell on deaf ears. I had a business to run.

He replied, fumbling over his words, his anxiety pushing his normal tenor to an almost screech, "Ye- yes, sir, Mr. Cullen. I- I'm very sorry. Please reconsider…"

Interrupting, I snapped, "Just finish the rest," and hung up. With an exasperated huff, I hit the power button and carelessly chucked the phone over to the chair beside me, unwilling to speak to another soul. Fuming and suffering from a massive blood pressure-induced headache already, I simply couldn't tolerate any more _people_ at the moment. To make everything that much worse, because I'd managed to forget to run basic errands this week, in addition to there being no food in the house, there wasn't an ounce of alcohol either. And right now, I needed a fucking drink more than I needed oxygen.

"Can no one do anything right?" I snarled, slapping my palms down on the desk.

My head tilted to the ceiling and I clenched my eyes shut. Hoping to find some sense of reason and calm, I focused on nothing but breathing, willing everything else away. In the quiet of the room, I could hear – I could _feel_ – my pulse, a hard, thundering rhythm, pounding between my ears. The blood rushing through my veins sounded like a high-pitched, ringing whine. A dozen times, inhaling leather and linen-scented air, I filled my lungs, inflating my chest until I could hold no more. Ever so slowly, my ire receded, shrinking down to something manageable – burning embers instead of a raging inferno.

During the past week and a half, my mood had been stormy at best. At worst, I'd been a fucking asshole, unrelenting and impatient with everyone I encountered but for one. In the daylight hours, I vacillated between bouts of red-hot fiery anger, in which I lashed out at anything in my path, and periods of quiet, darker brooding and melancholy. Somehow, however, at night while we painted and chatted, I managed to conceal my anxiety and tension. Or at least if Bella saw through my façade, she was gracious enough to pretend along with me and never admit it.

I wasn't precisely sure what gave me the most grief. In those too-frequent and too-long spans during which my mind wasn't occupied with work or painting or numbed by scotch, it was consumed with apprehension and annoyance over my moment of weakness and agreement to attend my father's celebration. I'd dialed my mother's number countless times with the intent of declining, only to recall the gut-wrenching sound of her whimpering pleading. Every time, I yelled at myself and my stupidity, but still failed to press send.

While my first torment made me a spineless coward, it was my second that confused the hell out of me. Why I'd asked Bella to attend the party with me – on a _date_ – I couldn't begin to comprehend. Like always, my brain was useless around her, and this time, I knew that my lack of control would cost me whatever it was that we were. A pleasant night out was an impossibility, because I would, unquestionably, fuck it all up by simply being me. Just thinking about it – her, with me, at this goddamned party – curled my stomach and left me sleepless in bed. Having to attend in the first place was torture enough, but now I had to worry about all of these fucking indecipherable _feelings_ as well as _her_ expectations of me. But every time I geared up to cancel – to try to explain that I couldn't handle both the party and her – she would say something to make me laugh and like a damned fool, I'd be too distracted to continue.

_Idiot! You stupid idiot!_ I chanted, gripping the edge of the desk in an effort to ground myself. I glanced down and saw that my fingertips were white from the pressure and my knuckles were striped red and taut.

I hated this. I despised my twisting stomach and throbbing head. I wanted to just hide away in my room and drink myself into a mindless stupor so that I could escape all of this. Vaguely, I recognized that since Bella's arrival, my life had been completely upended, and I'd been nothing but a far-too-willing participant. Now, however, with thoughts of the party, my family, Maria, and now Bella, I was in over my head.

I could barely function as a friend. Anything more was far out of my reach, never mind that now, randomly, sometimes when I closed my eyes to try to sleep, it was her face I saw. Never mind that since she'd literally thrown herself at me, like a flipped light switch, both my starved body and lonely heart cried out for more contact. Never mind those fucking looks that she sometimes gave me – the ones that after a week of quiet study and contemplation, I _knew_ signaled some pale echo of my own want. Only now, because I recognized that some measure of mutual attraction existed between us, every time my misbehaving, wandering eyes caught a sliver of pale flesh, my undeserving palms recalled the almost perfect fit of her frame, and my skin prickled as stabs of heat shot through my mid section.

I couldn't do it. I wasn't ready for something like this, and if I were truthful, I wasn't sure that I ever would be. The situation with Bella was no different than with any other; I wasn't capable of being anything good for her.

_Tonight_, I vowed, ignoring the ache spreading through my limbs. Tonight, I'd find a way to bow out, gracefully or not. It was as much for her benefit as it was for mine.

**~.~.~**

"Edward?"

I looked over my shoulder to where Bella was kneeling. Following the baseboard, her knees slid across the paper tarp, crackling and crinkling with each movement forward. Her navy college t-shirt – the same one she'd worn countless times before – was caked in white and toffee, evidence of nights worth of work, as well as a few rounds of playful brush fighting. Dots of white sprinkled across her forehead, and there was a long swath trailing down her neck where she'd unthinkingly scratched an itch. Even dressed down, with her hair up in a frazzled ponytail and covered in paint, I couldn't deny that she was beautiful – more so than I'd realized when she'd first appeared. Her skin was porcelain-smooth and just as pale, more like a delicate doll than a living, breathing person. In this moment, concentrating and quiet, she seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen her; not a single worried crease or stressed wrinkle marred her expression. Perfectly serene, with a hint of a smile, her attentive gaze followed her brush.

"Yeah," I breathed while reminding myself not to stare. Inside, my guts were wringing, averse and unsure how to broach the subject of the party. I argued that I was simply biding my time, waiting for the right moment and right lead-in. No matter what I said to myself, I knew that I was lying. I wasn't waiting; I was a fucking coward.

Her eyes met mine, curious yet cautious, and I couldn't seem to maintain the fake smile I'd plastered on my face. The only sign that told me that Bella had noticed my falter was the faint twist to the side of her bottom lip, a signal that her mind was spinning and drawing some conclusion. Casually, she turned back to her brushstrokes, and I thought for a moment that she would let it go. My hopes were in vain, of course, because before she even wetted her brush again, she softly asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I heard myself automatically answer.

There was a brief pause, and I held my breath, listening to the rhythmic, whispering sweep of bristles across wood. Just as quietly, she muttered, "Bullshit."

She still wasn't looking at me, instead intent on her detailing. Nervously, I raked my fingers through my hair, muttering curses. "Just nothing, okay. Everything is fine."

I heard some refute, some cross between an exasperated huff and an incredulous snort. "You should realize, Edward, that you are a piss-poor liar. You've been off all week long."

_Of course, she would notice. Just fucking perfect. _

"I have not," I countered, at once irritated and embarrassed. "Nothing is fucking wrong."

Bella sighed, rested her brush against the lip of her can, and rose to her feet. "Seriously, just stop. You really aren't fooling me. Is it work?"

With every push, my annoyance mounted until it was soaring and I was on the brink of exploding at her as surely as I had at Jenks earlier in the day. And I didn't want that. I broke away from staring and attacked the wall in front of me, rolling as quickly as my arms would allow.

Her steps snapped against the paper floor, growing louder as she approached. Even standing two feet from me, I refused to look at her, knowing that I _would_ say things I didn't want to say if I addressed her again.

"The party?" she went on, as if she didn't even notice the way I glowered at the wall or see the slight outline of the vein that would be evident along my forehead.

"Stop," I begged.

My conclusions from this afternoon were painfully inadequate. I was beyond incapable of friendship. I was damaging, a heavy lead wrecking ball flying through the air, just waiting to crash into something and destroy it.

"Me?"

My restraint, which had been hanging by a thread, popped and I could no longer contain the flood of pent up aggression and anger. I whirled around to face her, throwing the roller down. It bounced off the bottom step beside me and launched a wide spray of toffee-colored pigment.

"Yes! Yes, Bella! Are you happy? I _have_ been 'off' this week. Yes, I am so fucking stressed out about this goddamned party I can barely think. And I fucked up so much by asking you to go with me… because I can't _do_ this!" I yelled, wildly gesturing between us. "Do you not see how fucked in the head I am? Has that not been obvious enough for you? I _told_ you I wasn't good for you in any capacity. But goddamnit, you wouldn't listen to me! You just kept showing up and talking to me! You are so fucking persistent, and I've been nothing but an idiot thinking I could have anything with you."

Her expression was blank, impassive and betraying nothing, but she hadn't said a word, so I kept going, unleashing days of unreleased anxiety and aggravation. "You saw what happened with Jasper, right? You saw me literally fall apart. Do you really think I can be in the same room with all of those people? That I can somehow play nice and pretend like I want to be there? That when they ask me how I'm doing or mention my sister's name like it's not a big deal that I won't lose it? Do you think that I can waltz in there with you on my arm and act like I'm fucking _normal?_ Because I'm not, _Bella_, no matter how much I wish otherwise. Surely – _surely_ you've figured that out by now. This… this is a mistake. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have asked you. I should have just stayed away from you…"

Salt stung my eyes and my voice dropped to a broken whisper. "There's no way you can possibly understand this, but God help me, Bella, you _have_ to at least see that I'm toxic to everything I touch. I fucked up by asking you to come with me. I fucked up by agreeing to go myself. I just…"

My chest cavity felt swollen and bloated and my shoulders slumped forward under the weight of my own words. An uncomfortable, thick ball lodged at the base of my throat and I gasped for air. I watched, miserable and defeated, as Bella's eyes narrowed and her lips drew into a tight, straight line. It was as though she were trying to process my declaration, to measure my assessment against her own. After a moment, her jaw tightened and her eyes misted over. Whatever discomfort I felt was merely that – _discomfort _– compared to the pain that ran through my entire being as I realized that she was on the verge of tears.

Because of _me_.

And making Bella cry was like some cardinal sin, something that should be punishable by execution.

"Look, Bella…" I started dejectedly, but then faded because I had no more words. What had been said was said, and withdrawal was not an option.

"I'll be back in a second," she murmured, staring down at her clasped hands. Her pursed lips turned down and a deep 'V' carved into her brow. Before I could reply – to apologize or _something_ – she darted away and into the dining room. Silently, I stood there with one hand gripping the curled end of the banister, slack jawed and dumb, not knowing what to do. I'd done exactly what I was afraid of doing, and I wasn't sure if I should follow her or run or stay.

Somewhere in the background, I heard the creak of a cabinet door opening and then small hands pawing through drawers. Remorseful and exhausted from stress, my tirade, and the knowledge that I'd managed to hurt the one person with whom I actually liked spending time – the one person I actually liked _period_ – my knees buckled and I dropped to the stairs. Elbows digging into the tops of my thighs, I pushed the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, berating myself for being me and for being unable to stop myself for five minutes.

Unfocused, already sinking into the gray, numb haze of despair, I stared down at the covered floor, memorizing the pattern of splatter and spray. Some droplets were dried out and old while others were fresh and glinting in the light. Sluggishly, I reached down and dragged my finger through a recent stain, painting a tawny line.

Unable to look up, I ignored the footfalls, faint and light – treading more carefully now – so different from the confident slapping from before. The rounded white toes of tennis shoes appeared at the edge of my periphery, and then I felt the brush of cloth against my arm as Bella sat down beside me. Her body was so close; I could feel heat and a slight weight against my side where she'd slid next to me.

Fearful of speaking, saying nothing, I risked a fleeting glance to my right and saw that she had mimicked my pose. She was leaned forward, resting on her chin in the cup of one hand. Dangling between her knees lay her other hand, and in it, I caught the gleam of bright silver.

I nearly choked at her expression. There was unspeakable sadness there, undeniable and laid bare for all to see. Her eyes stared off to the side, away from me, lost in images that only she witnessed. Her irises were flat – a dull, muted brown – instead of the vibrant, living hue I was so used to seeing, and there was moisture there, unshed and shining.

So softly I barely understood her, she swallowed and breathed, "You said that it wasn't possible for me to understand. I suppose I've been unfair to you. You've told me things about you and your life, and I've told you very little of mine."

She lifted her hand and I saw that she held a framed photograph – the first I'd seen in her home. The frame was simple, an elegant silver 5x7 rectangle with understated swirling detailing in the corners. The polished finish was rubbed away on one side and it had dulled to a white-gray matte, as if someone had held onto this frame for a long time.

My breathing caught in my chest as I took in tiny, balled fists and bright pink cheeks. Thin, sparse dark hair was covered in a miniature light blue cap, and a sheet with pastel cartoon animals covered his small body. Even though his eyes were closed – sleeping – and his cheeks still held the swell of a newborn, I could see Bella written everywhere. She was in his delicate nose and soft pout. She was there in his cheekbones and in the point of his chin. He was hers as surely as I was certain of my name.

"James, Jr.," Bella whispered.

"I…I don't understand," I fumbled. My heart felt like it'd dropped into the pit of my stomach. "I thought you said you didn't have children."

A tear, glittering and wet, streaked down her face as she looked me square in the eye. The sorrow was depthless, overwhelming and devastating. I wanted to look away, knowing that I was looking into a mirror. "I don't. He died two and a half years ago."

"I'm…" I started, gasping and unequipped to respond. Realization dawned and it was as though I'd been doused with a bucket of ice water.

"I _do_ understand you, Edward. More than you know. For a long time, and even sometimes now when I have a bad day, I blame myself. I think that if it weren't for me, he wouldn't have died. If I'd seen the signs earlier, if I'd been tested, if I'd been paying attention, the list goes on and on…"

"But…" _No, that's just bullshit!_ I wanted to scream, but knowing better first-hand than to go there, I cut myself off, biting my tongue until I could taste blood.

Her nail absently scraped dried paint from her jeans as she quietly explained, "He died from a genetic birth defect, three months after he was born. The doctors said that there was little that could have been done. But what they said made no difference. He was my whole world and I lost him."

"I'm sorry," I murmured, as shared hurt lanced through me, cracking me in two. I flinched and took a deep breath, only to release it when holding it in became too painful. "I'm… so sorry, Bella…"

All of my earlier rage dissipated to nothing and was replaced by what could only be called profound empathy. At least for that moment, seeing her heartache – startling in its magnitude – my issues vanished away. I ached _for_ her because while our losses were different, they were the same. It was the unyielding crush of failure and grief and blame. It was hollowness and desolation. It was a wound so deep and jagged that it altered the very foundation of a being. I knew this pain. I knew it oh-so-well because I breathed it every single day. I knew its ins and outs, the subtle nuances, the way it squeezed and pulled everything apart, the way it could rip a person to shreds. I knew its razor sharp claws and gnawing teeth. I'd lived under its weight and its suffocation and I'd felt the desperate longing to escape it but being unable. Staring down at her, seeing all that I knew and lived etched into her soft mouth and dark eyes and in the clutch of her fist, I wanted nothing more than to take it all away from her.

Gently, I laid the photograph on the step beside me, taking one last look at the newborn who bore so much resemblance to the woman sitting next to me it was terrifying. Comforting another soul was so incredibly far beyond my depths, but unable to sit there and do _nothing_, I shoved my over thinking thoughts away and just reacted, allowing some long-buried instinct to take over, hoping that whatever peace I could give to her would be good enough. Without even considering the ramifications, just as she had done for me, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her as tightly against my ribcage as possible. At the contact, her spine immediately went limp, folding into me with a shuddering sigh. As soon as her cheek touched my chest, I felt her frame cringe and then begin to tremble against mine. I held her to my chest, bringing my other hand up to tenderly cup the back of her head, burying my fingers in her hair. Shaking hands grappled and twisted my shirt as if trying to pull us closer together. I laid my head against the top of hers and unconsciously pressed my lips to her forehead, wanting to soothe her in some way – _any_ way.

God only knew how many minutes passed on her steps, but time seemed to halt as we sat there tangled together, me holding her as she cried silently. When Bella finally lifted her head to look at me, the thin cotton of my shirt was stained dark from tears and beneath, my skin was damp and salty. Uncertain, I looked down at her, appraising her expression, trying to determine if she had cried herself out or, worse, if I'd made her uncomfortable in some way. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed bright red, but there was a tentative smile on her lips. When she didn't pull away, instead still seizing her arms around my waist, I smiled back and brushed wet, stray hairs away from her face.

"I'm sorry," she rasped, her voice dry and cracking. "I didn't know that was going to happen. It usually doesn't anymore."

"Stop it," I murmured, still smoothing back her hair.

I couldn't describe my state of mind in any rational way. I hated her pain as much as I hated mine, but in that same instant, I suddenly grasped just how she'd had the patience to deal with me and why she hadn't run away screaming. Flipping back through the weeks, I settled on the night of July Fourth when I'd tried to push her away to no avail.

_I told Emmett I wouldn't go because I don't like social events or parties or whatever the fuck they are. I think it's pretty fucking clear that I'm not really a good person. Look, I know that I'm a jerk, okay? I just don't really like social scenes anymore. People don't want me there. Trust me. They say they do, but they don't…_

_My family is going to give me shit because they always do. That's just the way it is. They haven't quite figured out yet that I'm not the son or brother they think I am. Or maybe, more like the one they want me to be. I'm just not him, okay…_

_You're wrong, you know…_

_What are you talking about?_

_You said that you aren't a good person… I don't believe that. Not at all…_

_You don't know me…_

_I've seen enough to know… I see you better than you think I do. I see you probably better than you see yourself._

Pressing my fingers between hers, palm to palm, I squeezed her hand and allowed myself to just be – _in this moment, with her_. I felt… lighter, fuller – warmer. For the first time in years, I recognized what it meant to be _understood _by another person, what it felt like not to be quite so alone. And it was staggering in its significance.

"What?" Bella asked softly, seeing my smile spread just a little more.

I sighed and bumped against her shoulder, at the same time giving her hand another squeeze. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

**~.~.~**

"About the party…," I began, now wholly bemused and cast off my original path. The very idea of attending still made me physically sick; that much had no hope of changing. But now, I was unsure where Bella and I stood. I didn't know how much my earlier rant had decimated, if anything. Nor did I fully comprehend what that moment on her stairs, which I'd yet to fully process, had done to our precarious relationship. Fuck, I couldn't even categorize what that relationship was.

She was my tenant, of course, although our interactions bore none of those characteristics. We painted together and chatted like friends would. I came to her house almost every single evening; in fact, I spent more time with her than I had with anyone in years. More seriously, we'd shared our too-painful memories and moments of weakness, so in some ways I felt bound to her. And now, to muddy matters even more, I acknowledged that buried beneath all my uncertainty and bitterness at everyone and the world, I wanted something else from her. As we stood across from each other in the hallway, my fingers wanted to touch and I _wanted_ her to look at me in that particular way of hers, that one that made me nervous and jittery.

"You're going?" she asked, breaking through to halt my internal war.

Uncomfortably, I shuffled my feet and shoved my hands in my pockets. I glanced down the hall, then to the floor, and muttered, "Yeah, I guess. It's going to be a disaster."

"And you don't want me to come with you? That's okay, you know. I understand why." There was a twinge of sadness in her voice, an almost imperceptible hitch that punched me in the gut.

"It's not that," I opposed, flustered and scrambling for delicacy and tact. "I just…I'm _going_ to fuck up, Bella. I haven't been around those people since before… well… I'll probably get shit faced so that I don't remember. I'll probably be a dick. And, God, I just…" I rambled, scrubbing my palm along two-day-old stubble. "I just don't know if I can handle your expectations on top of all that shit. I don't know why I asked you. It was stupid of me. I wasn't thinking. You…you don't want to be around me."

Bella shot me an incredulous glare, one that made me question my sanity. "What _expectations_ do you think I have?"

"Fuck, I don't know! I'm just not good at this shit! I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I've barely talked to anyone for the last four years, let alone tried to go out on a _date_. I don't know what you're expecting from me – that I'll somehow be charming and normal, maybe? I…just, fuck. I don't know who you expect me to be, okay?"

She chuckled and reached across the space between us to clasp my hand. Where her skin touched mine, warmth tingled and spread. "I expect you to be yourself. That's it. In addition to being a poor liar, Edward Cullen, you think way too much."

My brow pinched and I frowned. "You'll hate me after you see me in public. It won't be pretty and I'll probably lose it at some point."

"I've already seen you in public," she reminded me gently, as the pad of her thumb rubbed along the outside of mine.

"So you actually want to go with me?" I mumbled, inarticulate and disbelieving. "Even after…"

"Yeah, I told you I'd love to go."

There was an awkward moment in which I realized that two significant events were taking place. First of all, she was giving me an out, ignoring my earlier tirade as if it never occurred, because she understood from where it came. Second, surprising even me, I was accepting that I _wanted_ her there with me. I wanted to try to be normal for one evening, even if the chances of failure outweighed the possibility of success. Hesitantly, full of gnawing trepidation, I looked up and exhaled, "Alright, I'll pick you up at… say, four?"

Like that, her eyes softened and warmed, their vibrancy back in full force and nearly knocking me to the ground. Pink lips curved upward and behind them, a straight row of bright white teeth gleamed. Bella was happy and grinning because of me – not crying or angry or any of those things. For some reason beyond my realm of comprehension, she saw something in me that she liked, too, and _she_ actually wanted to be with _me_. And all I could do was stare back at her like some idiot and gulp from the zinging current that ignited in my stomach and crackled out to my fingertips and toes.

Because there it was, as clear as a cloudless sky – that look that I'd been waiting to see, the one that made my fingers twitch and my body catch fire. Whether it was this or the strange closeness I now felt with her, I didn't know, but something possessed me to act. Before I even had a chance to blink, before I even realized what I was doing, I leaned down, holding my breath and angling my face just so, and captured her smiling lips with mine.

Two sharp, stunned pants of heated air, only one of which was mine, echoed in the room. Everything else – all remnants of the night's tension – fell away until all I could hear was my own heart stampeding in my chest and all I could feel was warm, soft, pliable skin moving against my own, brushing and glancing with the slightest of gentle touches. When she stepped into me, closing the distance between us, a flash fire skittered across my skin and my hands somehow found themselves frantically cupping either side of her face, pulling her even closer, more firmly to me, unwilling to allow any space. Her lips slanted to deepen our kiss, and my lips parted, asking - _no, begging_ - hers to do the same. Over and over, again and again, in a repeating, wet pattern – an instinctual rhythm that conquered all awkwardness and nerves – our lips retreated and came back together.

She was so soft and her body molded against mine. Without thinking, my left hand dropped from her face, reaching down to grip the top of her hip. As if they belonged there, my fingers automatically shaped themselves to the inward curve of her waist and my thumb slowly glided back and forth, following the gentle slope of her ribs. Through the thickening fog of lust, I could feel the light pressure of her palms, flattened against my chest, dragging up and down, from collarbone to abdomen, lingering and dipping into each valley between muscles. Lost in _feeling_ for once, instead of _thinking_, I wanted to die right now, right here, because nothing on heaven or earth could possibly _feel_ better than this. _Nothing_, except for _more_ - more touch, more breath, more _Bella_. When the tip of her tongue licked across my bottom lip, only to then slip between and seek out my own, there was no stopping the low, breathless groan that spilled into her mouth, and I was too incoherent to care.

It was like I was awakening from a long sleep, one in which I didn't even realize that I was unaware. I was blinded by warm, scrabbling hands and I was struck dumb by the soft, smacking sounds of tongues and lips. Nothing could rival this intoxication. Inundated and completely overwhelmed by almost-forgotten sensation, I wanted to consume her, to drown in her – in_ this_. I wanted to never stop, to never come up for air.

Suddenly, I wanted to do a lot things, all of which I shouldn't. This was too good – far, far too good – and it was wrong. My brain finally caught up to my actions in livid, screaming protest, _Christ, Edward, what the fuck are you doing? _A barrage of slurs and curses whipped through my head, and self-loathing boiled and curled my stomach. When I grasped what I'd done, I wanted to throw up.

Lightning struck, clearing my mind, and in a panic, I jerked away, gasping and shaking. "_Fuck_. I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that." The urge to run out the door was so strong it nearly took me to my knees.

I couldn't have this. This wasn't allowed, no matter how much I wanted it. _No… just no!_

Bella's flattened palms curled into tight balls, yanking my shirt, refusing to allow my escape. Her eyes were bright, fiery even, no doubt a reflection of mine. But there was something else there, a surety and firmness, that evaded me.

"Shit… mistake… That won't happen again… I swear it," I panted, still breathless, but still staring at the way her lips glistened. Inside, a battle waged, fight versus flight, to stand or to collapse, to give in or to give up. Confusion and denial attacked me like a vicious, snarling predator, its teeth piercing through all my protective layers until I could feel its bite. My stomach rolled, threatening to erupt, and the blood rushing through my veins burned like acid.

"Yes, it will," she whispered, hard conviction bubbling in her voice. Not allowing me a second to think or to refute, she lifted herself on her toes, pulling me down, and our lips met all over again.

.

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Stop and Stare_, by OneRepublic


	21. Afraid That I'll Leave Them in Pieces

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. You are wonderful and you know why. Shoot me next time, k?

* * *

_**Afraid That I'll Only Leave Them in Pieces**_

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_Death warmed over. _

That was what I looked like.

Staring into the mirror, my image glared back at me, full of age-old contempt and irritation. Faint, splintered lines creased my pale forehead, and there was a harsh, permanent furrow between my brows, the stain of a constant scowl. In the soft yellow glow of the bathroom light, my eyes, once vibrant, were flat, a dull, cloudy jade – dead. Smudges of purple-gray ash colored the hollows beneath, and my cheeks were shadowed and gaunt. Fingering a small splotch of stubble I'd missed, I leaned across the counter, eyeing and appraising, really looking at myself for the first time in weeks.

I looked old and I looked tired. But then, I _was_ tired. I was fucking exhausted. For the last few days, sleep, or really anything resembling it, had been a lost cause. Ever since that goddamned phone call with my mother, every time I lay down and shut my eyes, my mind seemed to launch into overdrive. It raced, sprinting in a thousand directions, spinning through thought after disjointed thought, so fast it was almost nauseating. The stress of it all was debilitating and it left me on the point of collapse. I felt like a time bomb just waiting to go off.

And then, two nights ago, ever the masochist, I just had to go make it that much worse.

"Fucking idiot," I muttered, aggravated already. With thick, fumbling fingers, I knotted and unknotted my tie. It was crooked, or too long, or too short, and it was _always_ too tight. My throat felt constricted, like I was wearing a hangman's noose rather than decoration.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, I cursed again, wondering how in the hell I'd managed to kill an entire afternoon. I had my answer, of course, without even really thinking. As always, I'd spent the hours bogged down in my own head, wading through gray memories, bitter regrets, and the sick self-loathing that I could never seem to shake, all the while trying to convince myself not to walk downstairs and open up the liquor cabinet so that I could douse it all.

Hour after hour, my mind replayed snippets from the graduation party from so many years ago, which in turn bled into those same bloodcurdling screams from the crash that made me shake and tremble. And then, echoing off hospital room tile, I could always hear my father's voice, heavy and ringing with fury and sorrow, blaming and accusing.

It was worse than usual and I couldn't suppress the sink of my stomach at the thought of tonight. The idea of milling around and chatting with so many people, acting like I wanted to be there, like I deserved to be counted, was overwhelming to the point that it made me physically ill. And that just pissed me off even more – that I'd allowed this to happen, for landing in this predicament – and I berated myself all over again. A hundred times, I queried, trying to discern some reason for my recent behavior. _Why didn't I just say no? What in God's name had possessed me to ask Bella to suffer along with me? And why the fuck had I kissed her? _

The latter consumed me. Because whatever it was between Bella and me was both terrifying and infuriating all at once. It was terrifying in that parts of me were waking up under her soft command, coming alive in ways I couldn't control. My body no longer listened to better reasoning, craving touch and proximity too much to hear. Like a starving man, it blindly reached toward sustenance without thinking, without considering what could happen if it were all taken away – what _would_ happen _when_ it was taken away.

Even my brain was a traitor, wanting so much to be heard and understood, to not be alone. While I despised Bella's past and her pain, it also offered me solace. I didn't feel so isolated, so completely apart. There was trust there, unspoken but implicit. And buried deep down, I couldn't deny that there was a sliver of hope that I could have _something_ one day.

I didn't know what to do with all of these broken, awakening parts of me, how to handle them, how to turn them off. I didn't know if 'off' was even an option any more, and that scared me senseless – that drunken feeling of being utterly adrift and out of control. It scared me because I knew that there was pain – even more than what already assaulted me every day of my life – waiting for me when this was all over.

Fear made me angry. Being out of control made me angry. And even more, the whole situation was infuriating because beyond the need for self-preservation, I felt responsible for Bella. She deserved better than what I could give, especially now that I knew she had been broken, too. I knew that I should leave her the fuck alone and let her heal – something she seemed to know how to do – for both her and for my own sake, but I couldn't seem to make myself do it. I would hurt her. I would cripple her with my weight. I was such a selfish prick.

But fuck, it – her, her words, her body, her tacit acknowledgment and understanding, _everything_ – felt so damned good that I wasn't sure if I _could_ give it up. Being with her – touching her – felt comfortable, natural, like home. I ached for that even as I cursed it for what it made me do.

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine the feel of her wrapping herself around me, her heat bleeding through fabric to warm my ice. There were handprints etched into my chest and days later, my lips still buzzed. Inhaling, I could smell her perfume, and on my tongue, I could _taste_ her. Even in the midst of all my self-doubt and sick wallowing, I thought about that _entirely_ too much.

"Goddamn you, Edward," I spat. "Just fucking stop it already. Why won't you leave her alone?"

Not allowing myself to go any further down that twisting path, I shrugged on my jacket and hastily smoothed down the lapels. Even under soft light, the rarely-worn black summer wool washed my complexion out – more than it already was – and it made the circles underneath my eyes even darker. When I looked harder, relentlessly searching for every flaw I knew would be there, I realized that over the last few years I'd lost weight and muscle definition. My belt was buckled two notches tighter, and the once-elegant, expensive cut of my jacket, once tailored to fit me like a glove, now hung loose around my shoulders and waist.

With a resigned rake through uncooperative hair, I frowned, took a deep breath, and stalked through the door. I had less than four hours and I still had no fucking idea how I would manage tonight.

**~.~.~**

I was glad that, for once, I'd resisted the lures of my liquor cabinet earlier in the afternoon. A drunk, I was – there was no denying that fact. A drunk driver, however, I was not. Even at my worst, at least I could claim that.

Far too reminiscent of another evening – one I recalled all too vividly – the roads were already slick. The asphalt was pitch black, and a rainbow sheen of oil and rainwater gleamed in the bright beams of my headlights. Overhead, the clouds blackened out the skies, and despite the summer season and early hour, the landscape had already darkened to grays and charcoals. Once upon a time, in weather like this, I would have been careless, racing through curves and gunning whatever engine rumbled beneath my fingertips. I'd have laughed and turned up the radio when my tires spun and screeched in protest. When I was young, I loved speed. I loved the rush of it. I loved seeing the blur of the trees through the windows. Then, I'd been a foolish boy and I had believed that I was invincible.

But life had taught me differently, and now, my tires barely crept at the speed limit and my knuckles were locked around the steering wheel. Instead of a pretty, fast sports car, I caged myself in the steel and airbags of an old man's Volvo, and I drove like death lurked around each bend. While my own didn't scare me, my passenger's certainly did. I couldn't be responsible for another. I couldn't handle that; another death on my hands would kill me.

"Are you alright?" Bella murmured, breaking the silence.

My grip on the wheel tightened. I hesitated answering, not because I didn't know or didn't hear. I hesitated because the answer to her question was a clear no, and I barely trusted my voice not to snap and boil over the way it had before. Already on the precipice, I felt like a tightly strung piano wire, ready to pop and spring back at the slightest provocation.

But there was no point in lying since my pretenses always seemed to be perfectly transparent to her.

"Not really," I finally answered, softly but truthfully. My voice was gravelly from disuse and stress, rougher than I'd intended. Since picking her up, I doubted that we'd spoken more than three sentences. And for a long while, Bella had seemed to accept that – that I needed space and quiet. She understood the turmoil ripping through my guts and the anxious race of my pulse.

A _normal_ person, someone who didn't recognize my internal chaos and disquiet, would have flippantly responded, telling me to relax or to stop worrying. The words would have meant nothing to the speaker, but they would have pissed me off because I'd heard them more times than I could count. A _normal_ person wouldn't have allowed over an hour and a half of silence without being offended. But Bella neither reassured me, nor did she seem insulted. And a swell of something warm, something comforting and soothing, flooded my chest _because_ she didn't.

"My sister called," she started, seemingly talking more to herself than to me.

My forehead creased at the sudden off-topic declaration, and all I could mumble was an ineloquent, "Yeah?"

"She's coming Labor Day. Staying for two weeks."

Bella's tone was indecipherable. It was flat almost. I peeked to my right, trying to match her expression to comprehend the strange pitch and cadence. "And you are… happy about this?" I ventured, but I'd already decided that she wasn't. "You want her to visit, right?"

In my periphery, I saw Bella turn her head toward me and I could feel her eyes boring into me. In her lap, lit by the pale white glow of the interior lights, I could see her slender fingers twisting in the dark overlay of her dress. Her answer was cautious, unlike her typical, confident retorts. "To be honest, I don't know."

"Didn't you invite her?"

A short bark of a laugh filled the cabin. "Not really. She pretty much invited herself. I think I told you this, but Alice thinks I'm living out in the wilderness like some mountain man or something. It's pretty ridiculous."

"Where the fuck does _she_ live then?" I asked, unable to hide a twinge of irritation on Bella's behalf. I knew all about meddling siblings and family.

"Now? San Francisco. But that's just… _Alice._ She's… it's just her way of showing she cares." Her voice had shifted; it sounded resigned and tired, like she'd fought a battle too many times to care anymore.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it sounds like," I muttered with a roll of my eyes.

When she offered no response, I continued, chasing the allure of more pieces to Bella's puzzle, "Younger or older?"

For some unexplainable reason, I wanted to know these things about her. Despite time and countless hours of conversation, Bella was still an enigma on so many levels. Of course, my damnable curiosity had not waned at all; in actuality, it had merely strengthened over time, dissatisfied by her mystery.

In sudden realization, my lips curled up and I bit back a laugh. The distraction of talking somehow, at least marginally, untangled the ball of nerves and aggravation rolling around in my midsection. It diverted my mind, stealing me away from the edge and allowing me to function without wanting to explode.

And Bella knew all of this.

No, instead of telling me lies – that everything was going to be fine and dandy – she chose the better course. Knowing what I needed more than even I did, she offered me reprieve from myself simply by way of distraction, by granting me access to her and to more of her secrets.

"We're the same age, or close enough. That's probably confusing." Bella stopped for a moment, gauging my response. I wasn't sure what was written in my features, but I thought I saw her brow lift. "I call her my sister, but we aren't related really at all anymore. Her dad and my mom were married for a while. Both of us were only children and we were both lonely. So when we moved in together, it was a big deal – a best friend and sister all in one. When our parents separated, Alice and I… we didn't."

She sighed softly. "Though the last few years have been a little rough between us. I'm sure you can guess why. It wasn't that she didn't try to understand. She just couldn't. Especially after I came home."

I nodded, carefully picking my way through her words. Something was off there, or perhaps more so, something was off in the words she chose _not_ to say. It was there in the incompleteness of her tale, in the withering of her words at the end. There was something that I was missing and it left me jostled and tense, apprehensive of the unknown. My smile wavered and I was tempted to ask for more. But deep down, I knew better than to push – God only knew that I understood that – at least not right now. If I were being completely honest, however, my reticence was far more than mere politeness. I was _afraid_ to ask. I was afraid of confirming a nagging, unarticulated suspicion that had been rambling through my head since the night weeks ago when Bella had told me about her marriage and James. I didn't like where my mind went; I didn't like the pictures I saw if I allowed myself to dwell. I couldn't stomach knowing that – no, not when I was barely holding myself together. So I said nothing and I shoved those unpleasant thoughts away to deal with some other time.

As I slowed to a stop, waiting for yet another red light, I glanced beside me again. With a faint smile, Bella was turned toward the window, staring at the surrounding faded clapboard storefronts. Still and looking away, with her hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, she was the picture of poise and soft beauty. I'd have been blind not to see that. Silently staring – damned near marveling – whatever lingering unease I felt melted away and I focused on her, on the right then and the right now. Unconsciously, my eyes traversed her slight frame, head to toe, taking in the delicate span of her bare neck and shoulders, the accentuated curvature of her waist and hips, all the way down to the subtle musculature of her calves and they way they flexed from the angle of her heels. In all of our time together, I'd never seen so much of her and I was dumbstruck, gaping almost. It was embarrassing really, the way I stared. Earlier, when I'd picked her up, I'd been so wrapped up in my own head that I'd completely missed seeing her like this. Dressed down, she was beautiful. Dressed up, Bella was something else altogether.

Swallowing uncomfortably, my gaze backtracked, automatically pausing at the low neckline of her dress, which while conservative still exposed enough of her chest that I felt guilty for my ogling. The wretched, ill-deserving man in me couldn't help but wonder and wish for something I shouldn't have. I wanted to kiss her again, to smother her lips with mine and to feel her body drawn up against me. A flutter of nerves – far different in cause from those already attacking – skittered down my spine and settled in my abdomen. I wanted that again, never mind that we hadn't even mentioned what happened that night and never mind that it was stupid for me to want her. I wanted to feel again and I wanted to lose myself.

"You look handsome, too," she chuckled.

"What?" I fumbled, jerking my eyes up, only to find she was no longer looking away, but rather, looking directly at me. Her eyes glittered in the dark, and the smile she wore transformed into a knowing, amused smirk. Surely, my face was scarlet because it was burning.

Bella grinned and reached over to pick something off of my collar. The shimmer of a sheer black sleeve caught in the low light, twinkling. "You look good, Edward. Really."

Before I could muster a reply, from behind us, a horn sounded, startling us both.

Glaring at the rearview mirror, at once both annoyed and grateful for the interruption, I grumbled a harsh, "Shut the fuck up," and hit the accelerator.

**~.~.~**

As we walked through the lobby, any hope I had that this night could go well fell by the wayside. There had to be at least two hundred and fifty people in attendance, nearly all of whom I knew. If I didn't know them, they knew me or knew who I was.

Even without looking, I knew that they were _all_ staring. I could feel their prying eyes, the sense of crawling spiders across my skin. As we passed, each grouping silenced and once they mistakenly believed us to be out of earshot, I could hear the hiss of whispers and the start of rumors. As the eldest son, my presence was expected, but it had been a long time since I'd shown my face.

Some – relatives and close friends of my parents – knew that after Maria's death, I'd closed myself off and had all but abandoned my family. Those voices I could hear the loudest. They were speculating, noting my haggard appearance, and more than anything, waiting to see what would happen. No doubt, some were expecting a show. But most of the people we passed were oblivious to my past and reclusive nature and were simply curious. The quiet, dark-haired woman in black beside me, however, intrigued nearly all. They all wanted to know who she was and what had possessed _her _to accompany _me_. That wasn't an unfair question.

When we stepped into the ballroom, my stomach lurched and more than anything else, I wanted to run. There were _so _many people.

True to form, my mother had gone all out. There were a thousand twinkling white lights, glittering and bouncing off the shined herringbone parquet. The chandeliers were dimmed, so the room felt warm and inviting. Looking around, white linens and overflowing centerpieces graced dozens of tables, and when I inhaled, the fragrance of the flowers mingled with hints of dark wines and sweet perfumes. As I turned, I noticed that along one wall stood a long table of memories – my father's old rugby shirt, cherry-framed diplomas, and of course, there were pictures.

In the distance, large and framed in gold, I could see a happy threesome: a shock of dark copper on top of a pale, serious face, Emmett's short-cropped brown-black and his wide smile, and then in between us, there were shining eyes and long waves of dark mahogany, startlingly similar in shade to the woman next to me. I blanched, curling into myself and tearing my eyes away from that side of the room in a move of sheer self-preservation. I definitely could not go there. I couldn't recall exactly the last time I'd forced myself to look at the pictures, but I _could_ remember that I had ended up a drunken, sobbing mess. No, that area was off limits for me.

My breath stuttered in my chest and I wasn't sure if I could step forward. I felt warmth lacing through my fingers, squeezing, and when I looked down, Bella was watching me. She smiled gently, silently reassuring, but hidden below the surface, I could see tension there. "No expectations, Edward," was all she said.

My throat bobbed and I felt a pinprick of relief. Barely able to force a whisper, I answered, "I'm sorry if I fuck up tonight." Staring down at the square reflections of light in the black shine of my shoes, I cleared my throat and went on, "You… thanks for coming with me. This would be worse if you weren't here. Not much of a _date_ thing to say, I know."

I tripped over the words, but I wanted her to understand. "Look, I suck at this so fucking much and I don't know what to say. But you look… beautiful, okay." I couldn't bear to look up, trusting neither my expression nor my voice. I didn't have to, however, because I felt another squeeze to my palm and she shifted slightly such that our sides were aligned.

"Edward?"

I flinched the moment I heard her voice. Steeling myself, I glanced to my left and saw my mother nearly barreling toward us, her heels clicking furiously against the wood floor. Before I could even respond, I felt her slim frame crash into me. I tried to relax, not to be stiff in my mother's embrace, but there was no use. My whole body tensed and the urge to run spiked again.

"Oh, God, I'm so… thank you. I'm so happy you came," she rambled in my ear, clutching me tighter still. "I've missed you so much."

Pulling away, trying to ignore the flash of hurt across her eyes, I smiled reluctantly. "Yeah, it's okay, Mom. You've done a nice job. It all looks good."

I turned to Bella, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Mom, this… this is Bella Swan. She lives next door. Bella, this is my mother, Esme."

My mother's entire face broke into a grin as she reached out to clasp Bella's hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you, dear. You are so lovely. I can't tell you what it means to me that you are here. Thank you, thank you for coming." In the low light, moisture gleamed in my mother's eyes and guilt punched me.

As Bella and my mother chatted, I watched my father slowly approach, cursing under my breath. Unlike my mother, who was bubbling with excitement, my father's expression told me far more. Like me, he was wary and stress deepened the wrinkles of age. It'd been more than six months since I'd seen him and almost half of that since we'd spoken over the phone. I couldn't deny that I wished that it had been more.

"Son," he greeted. His voice was tight and guarded, and he made no move to touch me or to shake my hand. Nothing had changed. _Absolutely nothing_, I thought, as dread snaked through my body and hunched my shoulders.

My brow pinched and I quickly glanced away, grinding my teeth in restraint. "Hey, Dad. Happy birthday."

When I turned back, we eyed each other, each noting the subtle changes in expression. His blue eyes were hard and icy, and I realized that he was angry but biting his tongue. What I'd done this time I didn't know. But it didn't matter because the laundry list was too long to count anyway.

"Glad you could make it," he returned flatly. "Shame that we didn't see you back in the spring. Or in _June_. We were hoping that you'd have actually made it this year. Your mother was worried."

_And it begins. Fuck you, too, Dad._

"Work," was all I offered. Inside, I was boiling. We'd already had this discussion. We'd had the same discussion for years. The only difference was the time and place. In fact, I couldn't remember a time when we'd been in the same room where he hadn't pointed out my failures to participate in the oh-so-important family events. Never mind that the mere thought of visiting her grave made me retch. _That_ didn't matter at all.

I could guess what was coming next. But then, this was what my father did best. _Beat that fucking horse, why don't you._

"It's not that hard to pick up the phone, you know. Or answer an email," he countered, his voice rising slightly above polite conversation. "Your brother seems to manage."

I looked away and again glared at the faceless wall, refusing to speak, knowing that if I did, there was no controlling what would come out of my mouth.

"_Carlisle!_ Later," my mother hissed, placing her hand against my forearm. "God, just… _later!_"

I frowned and looked down at my mother's pleading eyes. I felt my whole face contort and twist. "This was a bad idea. Maybe we should just…"

"No!" she cried. Panic rang in her voice and I felt like all the wind had been ripped from my lungs. _What do you expect from me?_ I wanted to scream. _What the fuck did you think would happen?_

"Dr. Cullen," Bella suddenly interjected, extending her hand. Her voice was soft and melodic, and when I glanced away from my mother, I saw a polite, warm smile. "I'm so glad to meet you, sir. Congratulations and happy birthday." As if she had witnessed nothing out of the ordinary, she soothed, "I find it so hard to believe that this is a _sixtieth_ birthday. I can see where Edward gets his looks."

She turned to me, her smile never leaving. "Edward? I really hate to drag you away, but may we find our table? I'd like to drop off my handbag and maybe get a glass of wine before dinner.

"Esme, Dr. Cullen, it was so nice meeting you. I'm sure we'll have a chance to talk a little later?"

I felt myself being gently pulled away, but rather than fight, I allowed it. While I was raging inside, I still knew precisely what Bella had done and why. I couldn't decide if I was grateful or not.

Walking through groups of black ties and shimmering dresses, I warred between wanting to run and wanting to hit something. This was all so fucked up. I had no business being here. Whatever my family said, I _didn't_ belong. I caused my mother nothing but tears, and my father and I were incapable of being civil. In that brief conversation, underpinning the words that were spoken, I heard _everything, _everything that I wanted to fix and to change but couldn't. I heard grief, anger, and rightful blame, echoes of what I told myself every day that I breathed. I was kidding myself to think that anything would ever change. I'd done too much and said too much. And no matter my mother's tolerance, my father would never forgive me for taking away his baby. Pain twisted my insides and I felt like I was spinning. I needed air but there was none.

"I think we're table two," Bella mumbled, weaving through the crowd. As I passed a waiter, I paused and motioned for Bella to go on. "I'll be there in a second, okay?"

Her lips pursed and her brows knitted together, but she didn't argue and after a split second of indecision, she continued on to our table.

"What are you serving?" I asked, already fishing in my pockets.

The dark haired boy, likely just old enough to legally pour, nervously ticked off a list of wines and spirits.

I sighed and looked to the ceiling, noticing the dancing flickers of the chandelier lights. My father's words surged again – both past and present – and without thinking, I dug through my wallet and pulled out a wad of bills. I held them out, pressing them into his hand and ignoring his protest that drinks were covered. Resigned, I muttered my order. "Scotch. Whatever you have. Go ahead and make it a double."

My jaw tightened and my throat burned. "And if you can keep my glass from going empty tonight, I'll tip you double."

.

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _All Fall Down_, by Ben Moody.


	22. Hold You High and Steal Your Pain

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

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_**Hold You High and Steal Your Pain**_

* * *

"God, it was such a disaster! I was running down the hall, chasing this nutjob with his ass hanging out of his hospital gown, and what was Carlisle doing? Absolutely nothing! You know him – I know _you two _do," he said, laughing and waving a hand at Emmett and me. "Carlisle- he just stood there with his arms crossed, smirking and letting me do all the dirty work. I guess that's what you get when you're the new guy on the wing."

From across the table, through rapidly blurring vision, I watched his lips move as he regaled us with his most recent _adventure_. It'd been years since I'd seen Mike Newton, but he hadn't changed at all. Other than the newly granted title of 'Doctor', a new position and new office in my father's wing at the hospital, and the flashy gold Rolex dangling from his wrist, he was still the same arrogant, attention-grabbing prick he was in high school. Gelled blond hair, dark blue eyes, and a dentist white smile, he thought he was God's gift to mankind. He thought he was God himself to womankind. Even if I'd never met him, the poorly disguised leers told me that much.

Out of the two hundred and fifty odd guests, Mike was one of about ten whom I'd hoped to avoid altogether. In her typical overcompensating fashion to make me more _comfortable_, trying to persuade me to stay, my mother had seated him at our table. While at least we weren't sitting with her and Dad – there was no fucking way I could force myself through that – she was apparently under the mistaken assumption that high school friendships endured even when other, closer relationships floundered.

Never mind that Mike and I had never been what I'd call close. Years ago, he had been obsessed with running in the popular circles, dating the right girls, and driving the right car. Our interactions had _always_ been strained, mostly due to him constantly playing the one-upsman game in some twisted attempt to win at life. At thirty-two years old, I didn't give a shit about his diplomas or his new Lexus. I just wanted him to shut the fuck up about his chummy friendship with my father and to stop ogling my _date_.

Even muted by alcohol, barbs of irritation pricked, and the ice in my glass jingled noisily from the non-stop irritated flicking of my wrist.

I didn't like the way he eyed me, smirking and relishing my apparent fall from grace, and I certainly didn't like it when Mike scooted his chair closer to Bella's. Watching him sneak glances at her sent heat crawling through my middle, and inside, I was throwing every epithet I knew at him. It reminded me far too much of the way I felt when I'd sat in my old leather chair watching Jacob walk through her front door. It made me want to hurl something at him.

Deep down, buried somewhere, I recognized that I was being irrational. Repeatedly, I told myself that Mike posed no threat and more so, that jealousy was not mine to have; it wasn't as though I could lay any sort of claim to Bella. Even though I wanted it. I could admit that. I could admit that I wanted her and stupidly, I knew that I would take whatever she would allow.

The second prickly thorn was my father. To little avail, I told myself that I didn't give a shit that Mike likely knew him better than I did and that unlike me, Mike _wasn't _constant a disappointment. My relationship with my father was, from every angle I saw, irreparable; every wrinkle of his brow and exasperated huff of air merely echoed what I already knew. I didn't know why I'd even bothered tonight.

_Mistake. This is all a mistake._ The words mingled and spun through my dizzy head.

But regardless of my wants and attempts at denial, my body was tense, and I was on the verge of saying or doing something foolish; I could feel it, the way the words bubbled on the tip of my tongue. No matter how much I willed restraint and civility, I couldn't seem to find the wherewithal in me to care that it was all slipping. I almost welcomed it – the release of letting go and just exploding. It was easier.

"So, Edward," Mike started, casually calling across the space between us. His lips quirked in a lazy, arrogant half-smile. Even less than coherent, I had a suspicion of what was to come. The gelled mop on his head bobbed too eagerly, and his tone was far too reminiscent of my father's condescension. "It's been what? Four, five years or so since I saw you? You look different, man. How's your business going? Your dad tells me that you always seem to be up to your neck."

I bristled but somehow refrained from comment. Mike knew exactly how long it'd been since we'd seen each other. After all, he'd been one of the ones who pulled Jasper and me apart. He was simply doing what he'd always done, what he'd started the moment he sat down at the table – showing off. For whom, I didn't know. I wasn't sure if he was just trying to pump himself up or not, but surely, he could see that he'd surpassed me and that boasting his life against mine was wasted effort. More likely, he was aiming for the dark haired woman to my right.

In that moment, everything about him pissed me off, but more than anything, he scared me senseless. Or rather, the idea of him terrified me and made me gasp for air. Mixed in with boiling jealous heat there were ice-cold shards of fear. Even in my haze, I recognized that. On paper, Bella _should_ be seeing someone like exactly like Mike. He had a future, he was successful, and more importantly, unlike me, he was unencumbered by stunted emotions and a grieving past. Bella was healing. She didn't need my baggage to sink her once more.

Interrupting my internal war, Mike smoothed back his hair and winked as he continued, "To be honest, Ed, I didn't realize that Forks was such a hopping place for work like yours. If I'd known that, maybe I would have stayed." A loud, fake laugh punctuated his last statement.

_Fuck you, Mike. _

Beside me, Bella said nothing, betraying nothing. From the curvature of the round table and slight angle of my body, I could see her face and her expression was strangely unreadable. Her brows were slightly pinched and her lips drew a straight line. I couldn't decide if she was angry, amused, or just resigned. I wanted to ask her what she thought of this whole debacle, what she thought of my parents. I wanted to know if she could sense the unraveling in the man beside her. I wanted to know if she wished that she'd just stayed home like I'd warned, that she'd paid attention. The meaner, fuming man in me wanted to point out just how right I'd been, even as words of future apology threatened to spill out of my mouth. Because if Mike didn't shut his, what thread of patience I still held would snap and words _would_ inevitably fly. I just hoped that would be all.

"Looks like there are some other benefits to staying Forks, too," he went on, laughing and oblivious to my mounting ire.

In my periphery, Emmett's wide shoulders stiffened and his grip tightened around his dessert fork. Beside him, in pale blue silk, Rosalie politely patted her lips with her napkin, trying to disguise the nervous back and forth of her eyes. Whether their reactions were due to Mike or me, I wasn't sure. I assumed they were waiting to see how I'd respond, knowing my volatility.

That was a very easy and very predictable answer.

_Poorly. _

Still not responding, I just glared and shot back the rest of my glass.

Already on my third round – doubles, thanks to my arrangement with the waiter – my lips buzzed pleasantly, and with each spicy slug, at least the heavy guilt and sink over my earlier conversation with my father had dulled. The way the tables were arranged, my back was to my parents, so I didn't have to see their disapproving stares and I didn't have to witness murmurs hidden behind hands. Had I not had to listen to this prick's snarky drivel, dinner could have even been pleasant – mostly due to Bella sitting beside me. There had been a chance that I could have handled the evening. But now, my annoyance had a new target and my hopes plummeted to the floor.

"About four years, Mike," I returned coolly, correcting his first question. Aware of my articulation, my words slurred only slightly, a barely noticeable lengthening of the words. "And business is just fine actually."

"Oh, really?" His brow lifted in disbelief. "I wouldn't have expected that, what with the way the economy's going. What do you handle anyway?" While his queries were innocuous enough, his tone was patronizing, and I wondered just how much he knew about my current life. Judging by the earlier enthusiastic pats on the back and the loud laughs that I'd observed from across the ballroom, I assumed that my father shared far more than I would have preferred. And of course, Mike ate that shit up.

I smiled, an equally fake spread of my lips, and tried not to snap. "About anything really. Cars, antiques, some art on occasion. Mostly specialty items. My clients are fairly diverse in their interests." I paused as from behind me, a black clad arm deftly swapped my empty glass for fresh. Picking it up and bringing it to my lips, I clipped, "But then, you knew that already, Mike, so I'm not sure why you're asking."

Mike chuckled and leaned back, holding his hands up in mock defense. "Hey, man, just asking. I'd just heard that you've been having a rough time. I was wrong… _obviously_."

My posture straightened and mimicked his as I stared, careful to maintain a disinterested façade. Underneath the tablecloth, however, my fists balled, my fingers curling so tightly that my nails bit into the soft flesh of my palm. When a light, cool hand covered mine, I swallowed and looked over to Bella, breaking my silent contest of wills. Bella's smile was weak, forced, and when she leaned over, her voice, sad and tired, was low enough that only I could hear. "Please stop, Edward." She reached across the table with her free hand and deftly slid my glass away. "You don't want to do this. Mike's just trying to goad you. I don't know him and I don't know what your friendship was like before, but even I can see that. Just stop."

My eyes sluggishly met hers and something rolled my stomach. The jealous, angry heat was still there, seething and hot, sliced up by cold fear, but there was more than that now. This new swell was something blossoming and stretching, cracking my ribs and writhing inside of me, amplified by the alcohol boiling in my blood. My skin felt clammy and it flashed from hot to cold. All of my earlier thoughts roared back to life, squeezing my breath from my chest, and I realized just how fucked I was in the head. I couldn't have her. She deserved better. I couldn't even contain myself for one fucking hour. Ashamed and unable to look at her, knowing that I was failing but somehow unable to stop the steaming locomotive, I stared down at the tablecloth and counted the threads.

"Yeah, I know," I breathed, talking more to myself than to Bella, as I felt her fingers tracing the back of my wrist. I swallowed again, pushing back the bitter taste of acid. "I can't…I don't know how to stop."

**~.~.~**

Alone at the table with Emmett, I slumped in my chair, my shoulders tiredly folding inward and away from the hard angles of the wood backing. Like the rest, he'd said virtually nothing during dinner, and I could tell that he was nervous, perhaps as on edge as I was. Saying nothing, he warily watched me as I watched the room. Of their own volition, my eyes followed Bella's blurred form as she and Rosalie excused themselves during coffee. Her slim heels clicked against the wood floor, resounding between my ears, and even after she'd left, in a brief moment of lucidity, I could distinguish the lingering sweetness of her perfume over all of the other fragrances in the room. For the tenth time tonight alone, I acknowledged that my fascination with her was wrong; it was too much, too strong, and too soon.

Shaking my head, I wrenched my gaze away and swept the floor, searching through the countless people I hadn't seen for so long. The room was buzzing with chattering guests and clinking china, and everywhere I looked was a sea of black and shimmer. Some faces looked the same and others had changed.

Thankfully, just before Bella and Rosalie left, Mike had done the same, offering some lie of wanting to 'catch up' with old friends. In reality, he just wanted to schmooze and suck up to my father. Still irritated, I glowered and muttered under my breath as I watched him head over to the first table, pressing palms with everyone he passed.

Without thinking, I reclaimed my stolen glass and threw back half its contents. Fire ripped down my throat and through my nose, I breathed out smoke and spice and hints of oak. Lazily, I sloshed the remainder; a finger or so remained, silky, rolling color that coated and slinked along the walls of the short tumbler. Eyes probed me as I stared, transfixed, and I just muttered, "Don't say a fucking word, Emmett."

Emmett turned to face me directly, and I peeked up to see that his expression was purposefully neutral. The lines of his eyes were taut and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he folded and unfolded his napkin for distraction. "I wasn't going to," he answered quietly, glancing pointedly at the glass in my hand. "What the hell happened with Dad? I saw you talking."

I swung my head around, heavy with lush, spicy haze. Trying but failing to sound more angry than resigned, I barked, "What the fuck do you think happened? Same shit, different day. You know as well as I do that he doesn't really want me here."

Liquid rolled over the rim and dotted my fist. "Goddamn, I come here to try to do the right thing. What does he do? Oh, that's right!" Exaggeratedly, I waved my arm in my father's direction and lowered my voice in imitation. "'Edward, so glad you could make it, _son_. I haven't had a chance to ride your ass lately, so here, let me do it right now. Since you've come all this way and all. I don't think I've done a good enough job making you feel like shit today.' Fuck that, Em. I don't need him mouthing off."

"He doesn't mean it, you know." Emmett's voice was strained; sadness permeated both it and his features. His normally bright, mischievous eyes were downcast, unwilling to face the truth we both knew. Why he cared I didn't know.

"He just doesn't know how to talk to you. He doesn't know what to say. Fuck, I don't know what to say. No one does."

"Nothing to be said." My lips had gone from buzzing to numb and my tongue was swollen and thick, now unable to articulate, making my slur far more pronounced. Even I could hear it.

"That's not true."

"Yeah, it is," I mumbled, fingering the edge of the glass in practiced motion. "Really, it is. What the fuck else is there? Dad hasn't quite figured out yet that I'm never going to be his golden boy. That went out the window long ago. What does he want, Emmett? God, why her? Why not me? Everyone would be happier. That's what he wishes, you know."

"No, he doesn't. No one wishes that. No one ever has."

"Don't bother lying." I sighed and gritted my teeth against another wave of swelling misery spiked with anger. They were coming more frequently now, the waves lapping at my ankles, threatening to pull me under.

When Bella disappeared into a dark opening in the wall, I shifted my focus and followed my mother's path. Even impaired, she was easy to spot, coppery caramel on ivory. She was boisterous and chatty, graciously flitting from one table to the next. I wasn't sure how long I watched, but every few minutes, she would turn and look over to us – to me. In those moments, I could see hesitation in her face and in her step. She was uncertain just as I was. She wanted to come to me, but she knew that I didn't want to talk to her. And with every flash of pain across her features, hurt that I caused just by sitting in the room, the waves climbed higher and I felt myself sinking deeper, no longer struggling to keep afloat.

"So, you and Bella?" Emmett asked, changing subjects as he noticed my withdrawal.

I looked down and swirled liquid amber. The twinkling lights behind me reflected and refracted off of the glass, dotting my black coat with tiny, moving white splatters. I tried to follow them but they were too fast and the motion made me sick. "I don't know… Maybe. No… _No._"

"What does that mean? Either you are dating her or you aren't," he pressed, ignoring my sway.

"It's complicated. I'm too fucked up for her. Don't you dare tell me otherwise. We both know that's the goddamned truth. She's just different, okay." My breathing turned shallow and it felt like my throat was closing up. Reaching up, I jerked on the knot of my tie, loosening it until I could breathe again. Somewhere in the background, there was music, some light jazz number, but all I could hear was my own pulsing screaming through my veins and ringing in my ears. This – the party, my dad, Mike, _talking_ – was too much; I was in full overload, and I was gasping to keep up.

"Doesn't have to be," Emmett sighed. "Complicated, that is. You could try with her. She's… nice. And you seem different with her."

"I know. I like her. She makes things… _better_." I rested my elbows on the table and buried my face in my palm. The room was spinning and I feared closing my eyes for what I would see.

I felt Emmett shift beside me. "You okay?"

Glancing up, I tried to focus on his expression. My throat bobbed when I swallowed. "Drank one too many." _Was it four? Or five?_ _Not more than that… __Doubles, sure…_ I didn't know.

After an awkward silence, he pointed to my scotch. "You know that stuff is going to kill you, right? How often are you like this?"

And like that, heat spiked again, flashing up my neck and face, momentarily clearing my head. The seesaw of depression to fury was so fast that I didn't have time to think. And even then, all I could hear were the constant strings of nagging and dissatisfaction. I'd had my share of lectures and advice for one night. I'd had my share of accusations and of hesitant looks. A couple of dinners and an hour of moving furniture wasn't about to right all the wrongs.

"Fuck off, Emmett," I growled, pushing back from the table. My movements were sloppy and my chair screeched across the floor. "Just because we've seen each other a few times doesn't mean I want your fucking advice."

"Come on, Ed, you know-" he called out.

Stumbling away, I waved him off and threaded my way through the other tables. In the distance I saw the open doors, the ones I thought that we'd walked through. My mind slurred the word 'lobby' as if it were some mantra, a prayer for silence and solitude. People parted in front of me, giving me wide berth, and there were shocked looks of second hand embarrassment written across their faces. But I didn't care. I didn't give a fuck. I just wanted to get the hell out of this damned ballroom and away from the twinkling lights. The white square of the door was my target and with each fumbling step I could feel some measure of relief. I was almost there, almost away.

And that's when I saw him. Near the door, one hand neatly folded into his trousers pocket and the other palmed against the doorframe, he was a perfect picture of confident nonchalance – everything I wasn't. White teeth flashed and gelled blond hair shook with laughter. His expression was lost in both shadow and blur, but I knew who it was. His voice rang out like a shotgun blast. _He_ was talking to _her_. Bella. _My Bella_. The only decent thing I'd found in four long years and he was trying to steal her. My back straightened and my fists shook, craving – no, _needing_ – a physical outlet. When he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, there were no words in the English language to express the sudden white-hot rage that wicked through my bloodstream. The fact that she leaned away meant absolutely nothing.

Wrapped up in all-consuming fury and fear, my feet carried me forward faster than my brain could process. Like always, with regards to her – in any form or fashion – my body paid no heed to better judgment. Vaguely, I processed Bella's eyes widening as she watched me reach out and spin him around by the forearm.

"Hey there, _Mike-y,_" I garbled, throwing my arm around his shoulder. I was loud, uncaring if anyone saw or heard. "Why don't you and I take a quick walk? I want to hear _all_ about your new job. What do you say?"

"Edward," Bella started, warning pulsing in her voice. There was a spot of warmth seeping through my sleeve where her hand came down on my wrist. "Come on. Let's go, okay? Please."

"Oh, _Bel-la, Mike-y_ and I have some catching up to do, right? Old friends and all," I rambled, forcing out a humorless laugh. Swaying into him, my head rolled to the side. Everything kept moving and it was almost impossible to focus. "Come on, let's go have a chat."

"Edward? You don't want to do this," Bella snapped. Her arms crossed her chest and even blurred, I could see her dark eyes flashing. She looked livid. I didn't care. I was going to fuck it all up anyway.

Mike's shocked expression barely registered but his legs walked along side mine, following me through the door and across the patterned carpet of the hall. "Edward, hey, man. I think you need to have a seat. You're drunk. Just settle down, alright?"

Without warning, fast enough to spin the room, I turned and pushed him against the wall. Next to his head, a picture of wildflowers shuddered from the force and fell to the floor. His face loomed and retracted, the edges fuzzy and shaking in my vision. Thick, musky cologne filled my nostrils and I could hear soft gasps and cries from behind me. Someone tugged at my jacket but I just shrugged it off.

"You keep your fucking hands off of her!" I yelled. "Don't touch her again. Don't fucking talk to her again!"

"Edward, come on," Mike shouted, grappling against my weight pinned against him. His breath, washing across my face, was hot and smelled like bitter coffee. "I didn't do a damned thing. I was just talking, for God's sake. You're a drunk and completely out of control. Just like your dad said. Get the hell off of me!"

Everything slowed and then sped up. Bella was yelling behind me. I was yelling something else, words I couldn't distinguish from the ringing in my ears, and then, there was a loud, gut curling crunch. The last thing I remembered was sharp, biting pain shooting through my knuckles and palm and into my wrist as my fist met his face.

And then there was nothing.

**~.~.~**

_Just lay him on the bed, Emmett… There's fine… You don't have to… _

_Yeah, want me to help get him… Rose, can you… Throw those over there… _

_Here, see if you can hold his head up… Let me get these off of him… _

_No, just put them in that bag over there… they'll have to be dry cleaned… maybe ruined. I don't know…_

Consciousness came and went, and I didn't really know when I was dreaming and when I was awake. I felt as though my body was detached from my head, like I was floating, unrestrained by gravity. I could see colors but shapes were harder, more fleeting. Everything kept twisting and turning in a sickening kaleidoscope.

_Ma, now's not the right time… Where's Dad? Does he know?_

_Christ, what have I done? Edward? Oh, God, is he… asleep? Should we take him…_

There was a soft pressure against my back, gliding soothingly up and down. The warmth was incredible, like it was passing through my skin and settling into my bones. A shiver rolled down my spine, meeting the pressure in quiet gratitude. I didn't want the sensation to ever stop.

_He'll be okay… just passed out… _

_This is my fault. I shouldn't have pushed him… He told me he didn't want to come… _

_Stop it, Mom… Edward's got to deal with his shit some day… You need to go back downstairs before Dad misses everyone… _

_I need to tell him… He needs to see…_

_Esme, I know it's not my business, but now's probably not the best time for Dr. Cullen to see him… From what I saw…_

_I know… Carlisle's the last one he wants to see… I know. I've tried to fix it… I don't know how… They're both so damned stubborn… Just alike…_

The pressure moved from my back to my neck, dragging the warmth along with it. It shifted into smaller, more distinct points, digging into my shoulders. My muscles sighed and I wanted to drown in this. There were flowers here, somewhere. I could smell the fragrance. It was light and sweet, and somehow, in the recesses of my mind, I knew it. Its owner's name was on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to call out and beg it not to leave.

_I don't know why… Carlisle just hides it… _

_What did he say? Is it as bad as what Edward believes? What he thinks happened? What does… _

_Oh, Bella… I don't know… I can't get either one to talk… They were so close… Now… it's all… And everything is ruined… My family is so broken… Nothing's left…_

My scalp prickled and sensations rocked through my head, sending the kaleidoscope spinning again. I could hear all of these voices and they sounded so familiar. But they were so far away and my mouth wouldn't move.

Pleasure gave way to pain, growing with each passing minute. I wanted to open my eyes, to speak, to move. But I was frozen, stuck in some nightmare of half awareness. I could hear bits and pieces and I swore I knew the voices I heard.

_Mom, you need to go, okay? He'll be fine… We'll take care of him… _

_Esme, we're staying here at the hotel tonight… Don't worry… I'm not driving him back like this… _

_Will you call me? If you need me?_

_Of course… _

_Bella… I'm so sorry… that you had to see… my family… it's…_

_No, please don't apologize… Your son is important to me… I understand… More than you realize…_

_He's so far… I don't know if he can… _

_He has to want it… Go on, here's my number… I'll call you, I promise… _

There were other sounds, wet and sorrowful. And then, I heard a faint click and muted shuffling. I wanted to raise my head but my muscles refused to respond, instead sinking further down. Everything was so indistinct, so confusing and gray. Panic set in, only to wash away in another cycle of quiet and dark.

_How much did he have?_

_I counted at least five and they weren't singles… Maybe six? And he sucked them down fast… I'd have passed out at the table… _

_Fuck… _

_Go on… I can take care of him… You two go with Esme… _

_No! We can't… _

_Look, he won't want to see you when he wakes up… _

_How do you know?_

_Just please… He probably won't want to see me either… But… I know he won't be able to handle seeing you both right now… _

_How's his hand… _

_Not broken… Bruised, I think and his knuckles are split… That's where all the blood came from… and well, Mike's face… _

_Damn, he hit him hard… What the hell happened? I haven't seen him like that since… _

_You don't want to know… _

My stomach felt like a lead weight, like it was filled with heavy, churning liquid steel. It filled my insides and crawled up my esophagus, blocking the base of my throat. Everything moved in circles and my body felt like it was being pressed into the ground. My spine felt loose and bent, like it was folded in two. My arms and legs were numb.

A scream built, borne of pain and frustration, but it choked in gurgles and burning liquid. My body quaked, as liquid fire leapt up my throat, scorching me with its heat. My diaphragm jerked and my body heaved, convulsing and out of control.

_Shit! Trash can… Emmett, hold him up… _

_Don't let him roll over… _

_Fuck… Is he going to be okay?_

There was silence, blessed, black silence. There were no colors and the spin of the room slowed. The pressure returned, tracing circles along my lower back. I melted, still unable to open my eyes but not caring as long as that gentle pressure never left me.

_Are you sure you can manage? Damn it, Bella… He's my family… I can't leave him for you to deal with… He's my brother for God's sake… Not your responsibility to handle…_

_That's exactly why you can't be here… Unless you don't want to see him for another six months… Just trust me, okay… _

_Why? Why are you here? I don't understand… _

_He's a good man, Emmett… It's buried but it's there… I've seen the glimpses, the potential… He hates that he's like this… He hates himself…_

_Edward's hurt, so deeply you can't understand it, and there is so much anguish there… And he takes everything on himself… It's all so engrained now… He doesn't see a way out… I know. I've been there… _

_Are you trying to fix him? Because Bella, it's been tried… He's… _

_No, I can't 'fix' him, Rose… If he wants it, he has to do it… And your dad is not helping things… _

_Why, though? I don't get it… What do you want from him? _

_Just him… _

**~.~.~**

My eyes shot open. Wretched, brilliant light blinded me, washing my vision in bright white, leaving me disoriented and reeling. I couldn't see anything but a white field, pulsing with flashes of reds and oranges. My head throbbed in rhythm to the flashes of color in sharp pains that crackled through my temples to the back of my skull. I winced, feeling my heartbeat in my head, and my ears buzzed with the slosh of blood.

"Fuck," I groaned, burying my face in cool white cotton. The scent of detergent mingled with sweat and something bitter filled my lungs.

Closing my eyes, I rolled on my back, feeling the give of a cushion. I had no idea where I was and when I peeked through squinted lids, I didn't recognize the color of the walls. I sighed and slung my arm across my face, trying to hide and maybe to halt the pangs of hurt behind my eyes. There was something wrapped around my hand, something white and gauzy, and when I flexed my knuckles, the skin peeled beneath the covering in a stinging fire.

_What the hell?_ I wondered, flinching from mere thought. Everything ached and my stomach felt like it was hollow. I felt bloated and sore, like I'd just done a set of crunches, and my chest burned from the inside.

As lucidity began to dawn, I realized just how dangerous my situation was. I had no recollection whatsoever of how I'd made it here – wherever _here_ was – and panic spiked and began to rise. My breathing turned labored and shallow, and I could smell stale scotch and bile on my breath.

I sat up too quickly and my whole body groaned in protest. Shaking my head, I tried to force myself to see. But the room was off kilter, beige carpet sliding into muted-tone wallpaper. Up from down was lost and I struggled to keep myself upright. When my bare feet felt the coils of soft carpet, my whole body shook and my stomach quivered. I didn't know if I could stand, if I could even walk because everything started to move again. I pitched forward and when I did, my guts twisted in pain and the telltale thickness of my throat told me that whatever remained in my stomach would be lost.

Swaying, I pulled myself upright and swiveled my head around, hoping for some indication of where I was and where I could go retch. Another roll of my insides sent liquid barreling up my chest and my hand automatically clamped over my mouth.

"Straight back," a soft voice murmured from behind me. A small hand rested against my lower back and gently pushed my stumbling steps forward.

When I hit cool tile, I dropped to my knees as my stomach surged yet again. My abdominal muscles clenched and contracted, ignoring the soreness that was already there, pushing the bitter acid out. For God only knew how long, I hung my head over the toilet, heaving and coughing, clawing at the cold porcelain to keep myself from falling. Over and over, waves of nausea propelled me forward, roughly and violently trying to expel the poison. Sticky, alcohol-laden sweat soaked my skin, but I felt cold and my body rocked with hard shivers. My breath was shaky and unsure and salt stung my eyes as the residual wracking shudders slowly waned.

"I'm sorry," I panted when I realized who was sitting on the edge of the tub beside me. Through bleary, wet eyes, I looked up and took in soft, pale features twisted into an expression of aching and grief. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry. Bella, what did I do? Fuck, I'm sorry."

Bella studied my face for a moment and then reached over to dab a damp washcloth across my forehead and chin. It was warm but the contrast in temperature and the roughness of the cloth sent another round of tremors pebbling across my skin. Her brows knitted together and her fingers gently pushed through my sweaty hair, raking across my scalp. Slowly, she pulled me toward her, and my body was too weak and exhausted to resist. Her willing touch was my undoing and shameful tears silently streaked down my face. My eyes screwed shut in embarrassment and in misery, for surely – _surely_ – she would cast me aside. And I didn't know how I'd handle that. My chest throbbed as I waited for her to hit me, to yell at me, to do _something_. I waited for her to tell me that I was right and that I wasn't worthy. And I waited for the emptiness and desolation that would come the moment she spoke the words.

But instead of shoving me away, she brought my head to lie in her lap and she just stroked my hair, soothing everything away. I gulped and fought the urge to sob. I didn't know how to take this. I didn't understand.

"What did I do?" I asked again, barely whispering. My voice was scratchy and dry and my jaw and tongue hurt from the violence of my earlier dry heaves. When she didn't answer, more uncontrollable, silent tears spilled and stained her bare thighs, and I couldn't stop myself from latching my arms around her legs, pathetically begging her to stay with me. Dimly, I noticed that she was wearing my dress shirt and a pair of shorts, and that I was in nothing but a white undershirt and my boxers. I felt exposed, laid completely bare before her, in every possible way.

She sighed and her thumb swiped across my cheek. "Later, okay? We'll talk about what happened later."

"I fucked everything up," I whispered against her skin. Distorted memories flickered and my hand throbbed. I remembered my father and the way he looked at me – the disappointment, the hardness in his eyes. I remembered drinking to forget, to lose myself so that I couldn't feel. A cocky baritone chuckle rumbled through my thoughts and then I remembered blond hair and white teeth and the smell of coffee. And finally, I remembered being so angry, so very angry, and so damned scared that all I could think about was destroying something – _someone_.

She smoothed my hair back, lightly dragging her fingers across my temples. Where they traveled my head seemed not to hurt so badly. "Not everything. But it wasn't what I'd call a good night."

I lifted my head and dared to look her in the eye. "Why… Bella, why are you here? Why aren't you running away from me? I told you… I don't know how to be anything but this. Why are you here?"

Her smile was small and pained, but there was inexplicable warmth. She leaned down and cradled my head to her chest, rocking me gently. "Because I want to be... Edward, you deserve so much more than this."

.

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from_ Broken_, by Seether, feat. Amy Lee.


	23. You Will Fear the Things I Need

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

_**You Will Fear the Things I Need**_

* * *

"One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…" I muttered, trying to rein in the pounding in my chest. Over the ragged intake of my lungs, I could hear my heart and the rush of coursing blood between my ears. It was flowing so fast, pulsing with every push from my heart, that it sounded like a high-pitched ringing or whine. It was so loud that surely if someone were next to me, it would be heard.

The sight of that bright red rectangle, illuminated under the front porch light, invariably lit and glowing, sent a spike of icy fear down my spine. My insides felt fluttery, like I was standing on the edge of a bouncing high dive, refusing to jump because I feared the fall and the pain of impact. In nervous reaction, my fist tightened and crumpled the paper bag it held and I stopped an arm's length away. For a long moment, I just stood there, dumbly staring, debating again why I was here and what it meant and what the hell I'd do if she told me to leave.

I hadn't called.

And neither had she.

Yet four days later, after arguing with myself all afternoon, here I was, standing on her porch at ten o'clock at night like some masochistic fool, knowingly waiting for the smack of her palm and quick dismissal.

Over and over, I replayed what little I remembered from that godforsaken party, reconciling snippets that Bella had told me on the ride home on Sunday afternoon. Everything was hazy and disjointed, with large chunks of time missing. I remembered walking in and immediately seeing the disdain in my father's eyes. I remembered the familiar burn of scotch as I sucked down glass after glass as fast as I could, needing to escape. Emmett and Rosalie, as well as nearly everyone else, were more phantoms than real memories, fuzzy images on a fuzzy screen. And I couldn't recall actually hitting Mike, but I certainly remembered the fire in the pit of my stomach and the urge – no, _need_ – to take his head off.

While everything else was a blur, not surprisingly, one memory in particular was crystal clear. Closing my eyes, with no effort at all, I could recall the warmth and softness of Bella's arms wrapped around me tightly, soothing and holding me to her. Even sick and half drunk, it was like her touch was permanently etched onto my skin. And then, wrapped in that warmth and comfort, I could feel the tickle of her breath against my scalp as she chanted the lies that now wouldn't leave me alone. I'd thought about what she had said constantly, words that had struck a chord, resonating somewhere in the depths of my psyche. I couldn't escape them, I couldn't reinterpret them, and I damn sure couldn't forget them. Even though they were lies, mistaken sentiments of hope, part of me still clung to them and dared to wish.

_You deserve so much more than this… _

Like always, however, the other part of me, the smarter, more rational part, told that wishful part he was a fool and forced me to stay away. It angrily told me that I'd overstepped, that I'd gone too far, and that she was better off without me anywhere near her.

Without my nightly routine and more so, without Bella, the last few days had been little more than a jumbled, fast-forward mix of half-cognizant efforts at day-to-day work routine. Like always, business had been a welcome distraction; it was thoughtless and in the present. It gave both my mind and my hands something to do, something to at least partly take me out of my spiraling head. In an unrelenting stream, the orders had come and gone, though admittedly, more so than usual, I had little memory of what had been promised. When necessary, I'd spoken to my clients and to my wholesalers, hiding behind the light banter and false smiles I'd taught myself over the years. And by rote, I'd paid bills and filed the stacks of waiting invoices. I'd done everything possible _not_ to think about Saturday night and the nightmare I'd caused.

Where my days had been busy and rushed, the nights had been anything but. In darkness, each night I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and the slow moving patterns of reflected moonlight, begging for sleep that refused to come. And like clockwork, in the early morning hours, I inevitably made my way downstairs and to the porch where I sat, staring at yellow rectangles and listening to the strains of bluesy rock floating on the breeze.

In nearly every way, this past week had been remarkably similar to the days I'd lived before Bella and I became involved. They were boring and lifeless, and I felt hollow. Really, the only exception was that now, I was avoiding my kitchen like the plague, knowing the evil temptation that hid behind the closed cabinet doors. Out of mere habit, I wanted to drink, to escape into the world of numbed-out bliss. But I didn't because I could still taste bile on my tongue and I still felt the heat of mortification on my cheeks. Four days was the longest I'd gone in months.

In other words, I was tired. I was irritable, lonely, and miserable. And on top of it all, I was still utterly humiliated that Bella had seen me in _that_ state, that she had touched my sweat-soaked hair and wiped the vomit from my chin – that she had seen me fall apart in every way possible.

Unquestionably, I was embarrassed that I'd caused a scene at my father's party. But frankly, Mike Newton could fuck off; by my estimation, that prick deserved more than the black eye and bloody nose that I'd apparently given him. After piecing together Bella's synopsis and my foggy recollection, he had been begging for it as far as I was concerned. And Emmett could kiss my ass for thinking I wanted his advice or needed his help. And my father most definitely could, as well. But not Bella. For some reason, the idea of her having to deal with my shit was disgraceful. She was the one who deserved more – more than me.

Regardless, ever selfish, my wishful side having temporarily won out, I was _here_, standing on her porch, shuffling my feet and nervously palming the back of my neck like a damned fifteen-year-old boy, because I wanted to… feel _something_. And I wasn't blind to the fact that _something_ had everything to do with the occupant of this house, and my mind wouldn't rest until I knew for certain if I'd managed to ruin everything just like I'd predicted that I would.

Trying to steady my nerves, I shut my eyes, sucked in another deep breath, holding the damp, night air until my lungs burned, and slowly counted again. "One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…"

"Edward?" a voice called, interrupting my futile exercise in calm.

My eyes clenched and a silent scream of _No, no, no! _threatened to escape my lips.

"Edward?" Bella repeated, this time a little louder. "What are you doing out here?"

Realizing I had no choice, I reluctantly opened my eyes. As soon as I saw her, my lungs' contents expelled in a single, surprised puff of spent air. Of course – _of course_, she would catch me here. I swallowed but still didn't answer, not trusting my voice. And more so, I was desperately trying to check my expression and suppress the flash of shame and heat climbing up my neck.

Bella looked the same as always, bedecked in old ragged jeans and her worn navy pullover, now more an artistic splatter-paint piece than wearable clothing. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, with long strands loose and framing her face. She wore a look of mixed confusion and amusement with one brow arched high and pursed lips turned up into a restrained half-smile. One hand rested on the swell of her hip, and my downcast eyes drew immediately to her slim fingers, already coated in dried and cracking white pigment. In short, she was beautiful, enough to steal the breath from my lungs, and I wanted to touch her. I wanted to talk to her. And idiotically, I wondered if I'd ever have the chance to kiss her again.

When my fingers curled, painfully digging into the back of my neck, I realized how stupid and how utterly pathetic I was, and my first inclination was to curse her for making me feel this way. Irritation pulsed, mingling with the emptiness of pending despair, and I abruptly realized that all my ire was not really directed at her at all. I swallowed again, staring down at her paint-stained hand, and I suddenly recalled the light, almost luxurious pressure of her fingers gently trailing up and down my back during my drunken haze, even before she'd held me on the bathroom floor. She had been nothing but kind to me – more than kind – at my worst and even now. No, my anger was not for her at all; it was for myself and for all my failures. My warring conscience replayed its argument from this afternoon, flaying me for my inexcusable self-interest. _You fucking idiot,_ I grated mutely, feeling another hateful crash of self-directed loathing and disgust. _Why won't you leave her alone? _

"Want to come in?" she continued lightly, completely ignoring my lack of response. Her other brow lifted to match its twin and her half-smile turned to a full-on, knowing grin. Almost casually, jokingly, she winked. "Really, Edward, it's about time you showed up. I've been waiting for you. You owe me a ceiling."

Her words stung, the way she so easily – too easily – was willing to let me off the hook, casting aside the elephant standing beside me. I wanted her to yell, to be angry, and to maybe tell me I wasn't worth the trouble and to get the fuck off her porch. That, I deserved. That, I expected and, on some level, hoped I would receive. If she sent me away, then that would be it; there would be no more apprehension over _when_ I would truly fuck it all up beyond repair because it would just be done already. But when my mind went there, sharp pain twisted my gut and I couldn't seem to breathe.

"I'm sorry," I blurted, my mouth moving of its own accord, unthinkingly trying to stem that first stab of anguish. "Fuck, I'm… sorry, Bella. For everything."

Bella looked up at me, her eyes wide, dark, and seemingly depthless. "I know, Edward." The sincerity and soft timbre of her voice, one-hundred and eighty degrees from her teasing, was jarring and my mind spun trying to decode it. So lost in thought, trying to comprehend just how she could be so fucking understanding, never mind her own past demons, I didn't realize she'd moved until her palm pressed against my abdomen, just above the top of the waistband of my jeans. Her fingertips spread out and rested in the dips between the planes, her short nails lightly scratching. Shocked by the unexpected contact, even through the cotton of my shirt, my muscles flexed immediately, and a slight shudder shook my frame. It was too late to pull away; I knew that she felt my reaction because her head tilted, and I saw the vaguest hint of sympathy light her eyes. Or perhaps, it was empathy I saw. From anyone else, knowing myself, I'd have flown into a furious, scathing tirade. From her, it was different. Like I'd told Emmett, _she_ was… different, so I just stood there and waited, trying to ignore the other, less than appropriate sensations her touch elicited.

"Let's go inside, okay?" Her fist balled my shirt and tugged, breaking me from my introspection. "Like I said, I have work for you, mister."

"I brought dinner," I mumbled, looking away and embarrassed anew. The paper bag in my hand crackled to punctuate my statement. "I didn't cook, so it's edible. It's… it's just Chinese from town. I didn't know what you'd want, so I got a few things. I thought maybe we could eat first? You don't have to. If you're not…if you don't want to."

Inside the living room, she turned and eyed me, appraising me and finding God only knew what. "You brought me dinner?"

I grimaced, not quite processing her tone. "Yeah."

There was long, uncomfortable pause in which we just stood there, her looking at me and me looking at anything but her, and I couldn't for the life of me understand what was going through her head. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her unconsciously finger the hem of her shirt and I noticed her eyes were narrowed. I could see the wheels turning; it was as if she was making some decision or coming to some conclusion. I wanted to ask, to beg if needed, but instead, I was frozen under her scrutiny.

"You don't ha-," I started, forcing the words.

Before I could finish, she abruptly grinned again, one of her signature grins that always left me reeling, and interrupted, "I'll love it. Thank you. Really. I'm starving."

She reached out and tugged on my shirt again, pulling me through the room. "I'm glad you came over. It hasn't been long, I know, but I missed having you around. I wasn't sure if you'd be back." A peculiar sadness echoed through her last statement, one I hated hearing.

Barely above a whisper, I answered, my words more honest than I realized until after they were spoken aloud, "I missed being here, too…"

I bit the inside of my cheek, not entirely happy with my phrasing. Knowing my face had to have been crimson, I stared down at coils of beige carpet and rushed, "No, that's not exactly correct. I shouldn't say this because, well… I just shouldn't. But I missed _you_, okay."

**~.~.~**

Like always, manual labor was the balm to a troubled mind. Considering where I started, anxiety-wise, it was a wonder that anything at all remained of my earlier worry, because my shoulders were numb, my neck was sore, and my wrists felt like they were on fire.

"Fucking ceiling," I grumbled under my breath, as I dipped my roller for what felt like the thousandth time. "You weren't kidding. What did you do, paint the whole damned upstairs?"

A low, musical chuckle answered me, and my head involuntarily swung around to find it. Legs crossed, paintbrush in hand, Bella was sitting on the floor staring at the white wainscoting in front of her with an amused smirk on her face. "Just wanted to get this room – the guest room – done before Alice arrives. My room may have to wait. But I wanted hers to be perfect."

"Does it matter?" I mumbled, trying to ignore the burn in my upper back. "Will she really care if the walls are painted or not?"

"Probably not. But…" Bella sighed and glanced over to where I stood. The smirk had vanished and was now replaced with straight lips and distant eyes. "Ever just wanted things to be just right… so that maybe… I don't know… so that people couldn't give you shit? That maybe they couldn't accuse you of not having your life together?"

And in that resigned, melancholy query, coupled with what little she'd told me before, I knew everything I needed to know about Bella's relationship with her sister. "Yeah, I guess," I replied softly, though in fact, I _knew_, not just _guessed_. Before, I thought I had the market cornered on grief from family members, but apparently not.

Bella shrugged her shoulders in supposed indifference, but I caught the flicker of a crease in her brow, a slight pucker between her eyes, a tell that she didn't realize she had. And the dark, normally vibrant shade of her irises seemed flat. "Don't get me wrong," she went on, waving as if to prove her point, "I miss her and I look forward to seeing her." Turning back to her wall, she slapped a layer of paint on just a touch too fast. "It's just been a while since we've seen each other. And she's going to automatically assume the worst since she never really approved of me moving up here on my own. It's her nature, though, to worry. I guess I just want to prevent as much… _drama_ as possible. And for Alice, appearances count. So… we're painting her room before we get to mine."

Not wanting to insult her, for once my body and brain were in alliance and I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I busied myself by pushing excess paint from the knap. But from my perspective, it sounded like her sister was a pain in the ass and not too dissimilar from members of my own family.

Shifting her body to face me, Bella motioned me over. Her features transformed, the heaviness evaporating, and there was a hint of a smile playing across her lips again, as if she were laughing at some unspoken joke. She likely saw my pained expression and found it funny. _Glad to be of service_, I wanted to smart.

"Had enough? Break maybe?"

"About time," I huffed. My upper body was beyond caring if my eagerness made me look weak. Grateful for reprieve, I rested my roller in its pan and carefully crossed the paper-covered floor, trying to avoid wet spots and splatters. With a grunt and crackle of paper, I folded to the floor beside her, but instead of sitting, exhausted, I laid back, sprawling out. I raised my arms above me, locking my fingers together to create a pillow for my head, and stared up at the ceiling.

The hard floor felt good beneath my back – solid, despite the thin layer of carpet –and I could feel my spine stretching. It was like a tightly raveled knot uncurling. Bella looked down at me in surprise and then followed suit, easing back to lie beside me, her arm lightly brushing against mine. Even through fabric, I could feel her warmth, that special heat of another being's touch.

"Tired?"

"You have no idea," I laughed, my amusement ending in a reflexive yawn.

Startling me with her perception, she murmured, "How bad is your insomnia?"

In the glare of the work light, overhead I could see the faint 'M' pattern of my roller marks, areas where the paint dried a little faster than others. By morning, those wet paths would be invisible, but for now, they were there, and my eyes followed the trails. Inhaling, I could smell latex and General Tso and the hint of Bella's floral perfume. I wasn't sure how long I lay there, just breathing and staring at the ceiling, but in my periphery, Bella's features showed neither signs of impatience nor a willingness to forget. She just… waited for my stalling to cease. I wasn't comfortable discussing things like this, topics that invariably ended with me disclosing more of my fucked up past and even more fucked up present, but deep down I knew that I owed her something.

Since walking through the door, nothing else had been said about my wretched behavior or my possibly worse four day disappearance and lack of communication. No, instead, we'd just resumed our normal routine, the very one I'd been terrified of losing. For that, for not discarding me like I deserved, I owed her at least a few uneasily given answers.

"Bad enough, I guess," I finally replied.

She nodded. "Just can't sleep?"

"Yeah, I suppose," I answered. My voice sounded detached, clinical almost. "Most of the time it's like the thoughts just won't stop, like my brain doesn't know it's time to shut off. Not that big of a deal, okay."

"Dreams?"

"Sometimes," I hedged, fighting to hold the images a bay.

Bella rolled onto her side, her head propped up by her palm. Her other hand came up, hesitantly almost, as if approaching a skittish animal, and gently brushed the hair off my forehead. My scalp prickled and automatically, my eyes shut, just _feeling_. When I didn't object, she didn't stop, her fingers threading through my tangled and likely paint-speckled hair. Her nails lightly scratched my skin, and I tried not to sigh or groan or make some other embarrassing sound. But the motion was so soothing that it washed those last lingering remnants of my anxiety away. It was the same sensation I recalled from my drunken stupor, and it took everything in me to not pull her to my chest and trap her forever, just so that she wouldn't stop.

"I dream about the accident sometimes," I whispered, focusing on the relaxing rhythmic motions of her fingers, pushing away the encroaching remembered scent of mingled gasoline and blood. "And about afterward."

"Afterward?" she asked, her voice lyrical and calming.

I took a deep breath, refusing to open my eyes. "Yeah. In the hospital. I couldn't attend the funeral. The doctors wouldn't let me out. I was pretty banged up – broken leg, some ribs, a lot of bruising and cuts, and then I had some internal damage."

Her motions stopped but only long enough for her hand to drift to my torso where she glided the tips of her fingers to the indentions of my surgical scars. "These?"

"Yeah. Ruptured my spleen from the impact and then being pinned against the steering wheel for so long. At least that's what they told me. I have a hard time remembering sometimes. I was out for most of it."

Just like before, she explored my abdomen, tracing the lines of my muscles, tenderly thumbing the smattering of inch long scars on my side. The action felt intimate, like she was exploring _me_, willingly. While rationally and logically, I knew that it was wrong and made no sense, I couldn't help but relish it: _her_ touching _me_.

There was a sharp crinkle of paper shifting and then along the entire length of my side, I felt her press against me. Her head dropped to my shoulder, her hair ghosting across my jaw, and her arm snaked around my middle and squeezed. My whole body went stiff in alarm, and I couldn't find any words to express myself, or what I thought of her proximity. Noting each and every curve, I could feel her breathing, the slow and steady rise and fall of her chest against my ribcage.

After a moment of hesitation, I unlocked my fingers and brought my left arm down, tentatively draping it across her shoulder. Again, I was struck by the intimacy of our positioning. Warmth radiated from her to me and she felt so damned soft. Unlike me, all bones and angles, she was supple, molding against me like the matching piece to a puzzle. Without thinking, I turned my head and my lips grazed her forehead because it all just felt… _right._

"What happened with your dad?" Her words were muffled by my shirt, but they were clear enough. Expecting my retreat, her arm tightened around me.

My throat closed and I could barely force back a swallow, but the pressure of her hold kept me grounded, and for some reason, without fighting, I just answered. "He came to see me right after I woke up. Dad was the one that told me Maria died." I inhaled a ragged breath. "Over and over, he told me that I shouldn't have pulled her from the party – she'd just graduated from UW – that it wasn't my place, and that if I hadn't have been such a hothead, then none of this would have happened. Basically, he confirmed all my own guilt and showed me what I'd done. He was angry and tired and grieving – he'd been up for two days straight and dealing with Mom and funeral arrangements. Mom was devastated, so really he shouldered it all. I can't blame him."

Over Bella's head, I stared at wall, at the dark shadowed outline of our tangled bodies. "Afterward, I couldn't be around them. Every time I tried, I could see it in his eyes and it made me physically ill. He saw her in me, what was missing from the family, what I'd taken away with my arrogance and stupidity. At first, we tried to talk, to be normal, but our conversations somehow always turned into arguments. Anger is always easier than anything else. I don't even remember most of our fights, to be honest. Just that I wasn't there enough for Mom. That I blew off Emmett. That I didn't care enough to put the flowers on Maria's grave."

I thumbed her shoulder and pulled her closer, as if to drive away the ache. "It wasn't that, you know. Every time I set foot in that damned cemetery, I get sick. It's not like I haven't tried. I just can't be there. And God, it's not that I don't care. I just can't. And he won't listen. He just thinks the worst anyway."

I paused, not wanting to delve any further into that particular subject. _Surely, she doesn't want to hear any more about how completely I've wrecked my family and my life, _I argued. I'd divulged enough. _But why does she care? Why me? What the fuck does _she_ see in _me?_ What's even left to be seen? _My curiosity bit and ever the masochist, I abandoned the failure of my family life for another equally uncomfortable realm.

"Why did you open the door?" I whispered, suddenly all too aware of the emptiness that her arms enveloped. "Why do you keep opening the door?"

Bella lifted her head and reached up to palm my days-old stubble. Her neck craned and her lips found mine, just a brush, but it was so much more than I'd hoped. "Why do you keep showing up on my porch?"

My mouth twisted into a half-smile. "You know the answer to that."

She kissed me again, still closed mouth but this time lingering just a second longer than before. "You think it's any different for me?"

.

.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Cover Me_, by Candlebox


	24. And It Hurts to Care

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

_**And It Hurts to Care**_

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Exactly two weeks to the day after the party and exactly two days too early, I found myself slouched in my old leather chair, as always, staring through the window across the open yard. A fine mist coated the glass, a pane of tiny round droplets that slightly warped the scene in front me. Despite the mid afternoon hour and the news station's lies, it was foggy and drizzling, not so uncommon for the area, but depressing nonetheless. The diffuse light and suspended moisture cast everything in translucent gray-white, washing out any hint of vibrancy or bold color, from the cloud covered skies to the decaying orchard to the white house beyond the drive. The fog made the lines a little fuzzier, a little less sharp, and coupled with the distortion of wet glass, it all looked more like a painting than a photograph.

Regardless, even behind a wall of gray vapor, the canary Porsche in her driveway was impossible to miss. It was neither the top of the line nor was it new off the lot, but it was new enough that the body style was current, and as such, not cheap. Based more off the color than the make itself or the year, the car was what I derisively called a status car, a vehicle for those who wanted to be seen. Judging by the conversations Bella and I had had, I knew immediately that it belonged to her sister, Alice.

The sound of Garrett barking, that deep, protective bark he reserved for strangers – one I thankfully didn't garner anymore now that I was such a regular nightly fixture – rumbled through the glass. Even from here, I could see the anxiety in his stance as he paced, loudly debating whether to give in and cross the unseen buried line that kept him from the front yard. He was worried for Bella and he didn't like strange company. I couldn't blame him really, because if I were being honest, something – some darker emotion that I wasn't accustomed to feeling – was welling in me, as well.

For the past some-odd weeks, I'd witnessed Bella's growing apprehension first hand, as much as she tried to conceal it. I saw it in the way her eyes turned distant and in the sag of her shoulders when she spoke of her mother and sister. I could hear the anxiety in her voice, and even though Bella was a fucking expert in _not_ saying things – _unlike me_ – when I paid enough attention, I could hear it in the few words she did say. While I still knew little of her life before she moved here, which frustrated my damnable curiosity to no end, I knew enough to recognize that Bella's relationship with her sister, blood related or not, was complex and less than perfect.

Without having to be told, intuitively, I understood that this _Alice _had the power to hurt Bella, and _that_ was, at least in part, what left me just as on edge as that dog of hers. Instinctively, I wanted to protect her from that, from pain, or from whatever her sister could do to her, regardless of her perhaps noble intentions. In those brief moments when Bella's walls were down, I'd seen a little of what still resided in her. I'd felt the sorrow roll out of her in sharp, wracking shudders, and its tears had soaked my shirt through to skin. It was an anguish she tried to hide but couldn't shake because it was buried bone deep; it was a grief that her sister couldn't hope to understand. No, Alice couldn't comprehend that, and Bella certainly didn't need someone else beating on her and giving her shit. _Like I'm one to talk_, I spat back at myself.

Layered on top of this new _protectiveness_, however, I couldn't deny that there were other, far more selfish and far more volatile emotions at play. Until Bella had reminded me, I'd all but forgotten about her new job and its long-term ramifications. Last night, between tearing up the floor covering and coffee, she'd gently reminded me that she was supposed to start the day after Labor Day. She was hesitant when she told me, somehow understanding that her good news wasn't so good for me. It didn't take an advanced degree to grasp that between her new hours and her _houseguest,_ my nightly routine was shot for at least two weeks, if not indefinitely.

I couldn't stop the uncomfortable lock of my jaw as I wondered if I'd see her at all. Likely, she wouldn't want me anywhere near her sister for fear of what I'd say or do. Bella wasn't stupid and she certainly knew of what I was capable. But realizing that I wouldn't see her _bothered_ me. It pissed me off that my schedule was wrecked, that I felt like something was being stolen from me. More than anything, however, it left me feeling lonely again. Even though it was all my damned fault for getting into this situation in the first place and even though she'd reassured me that Alice would only be here for two weeks, that this was temporary, I struggled to not resent her for making me feel this shit again.

That was the sum of it; on top of worry _for_ Bella, in her absence, I felt alone inside my head, inside my skin, and inside my empty house. I'd been lonely before. I'd been miserable before, but now, it was that much worse because I knew that something else was possible. I wanted to be with her, but now I couldn't.

My fingers drummed a hard, fast percussion against the top of the armrest, anxious and angry all at once. I could feel my blood pressure rising, pushing the fluid faster and faster through my veins and heating my skin, and my teeth gritted to still both the hopelessness and the frustration. Yet no matter how many deep breaths I took and no matter how much I willed it all away, with each passing moment, everything inside me only grew and blossomed, unfurling and expanding until my ribs were splitting. It was like being pummeled and kicked from within but being unable to stop it or to escape.

In this way, I was better off before I met Bella, because then, I didn't know and I didn't feel anything other than anger. But those little slivers of happiness and hope cut so deeply; they hurt and they made me feel too much and want to cry like a baby.

I sighed and closed my eyes. "Fuck this," I breathed, hearing the sound of clinking ice inside my tightening fist. "All of it."

Fury blended with everything else. I fucking hated these _feelings _all over again, just as much as I ever had_. _And I hated that I was so out of control and dependent on her. And I _almost_ hated the glass in my hand and the liquid it contained and the fact that it was there again, despite the stupid vows I'd made to myself. By the time the rim hit my bottom lip, however, my willpower vanished in the fog of relief and I couldn't find it in me to care.

It wasn't like she'd know anyway.

**~.~.~**

I frowned at the receiver, not answering immediately.

"Come on, it's just an hour of hotdogs and hamburgers… Please, Edward?"

Her voice started out strong, teasing in her normal fashion – no doubt amused that she'd woken me at four in the afternoon on a Monday, never mind that after _only_ two days without my nightly routine, I hadn't been able to shut my eyes until mid-day and only after a dousing of liquid tranquilizer. By the time that 'please' was uttered, however, the playful teasing withered and by the time Bella actually spoke my name, it was gone altogether. In that small phrase, she gave herself away. There was hesitancy and uncertainty there; she was pleading and I didn't know why.

With an uncomfortable huff, I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling – stalling as usual. Of course, I _wanted_ to see her, regardless of whether or not I should. That was no longer in question – at least I could admit that now – but it was embarrassing the way my first inclination was to give in without thought, to so easily forget the way I'd felt mere days before and to say yes without any consideration at all like some lost puppy. Thankfully before my lips could move, for once, my brain somehow stopped them. While, yes, I did want to see Bella, selfishly, I had no desire whatsoever to share my time with her. Beyond that, while I couldn't deny these new _protective_ urges, frankly, I wasn't convinced that meeting her sister was such a wise decision. My recent track record spoke volumes to that effect.

"Bella, I don't know if that's really such a go-"

"Please?" she began again, this time so quietly that I could barely hear her. But it was more than enough to cut anything I could say in two because in that soft, breathy request, there was that damned sadness – or maybe it was disappointment – a sound that I hated beyond reason coming from Bella. Hearing _that_, any chance I had at denying her was spent, despite whatever concerns I had, legitimate or not.

Aggravated but resigned, I sat up and dry washed my face. When I heard the crackle of hair and felt that faint prickle of skin, I absently realized that I'd somehow forgotten to shave again. Half distracted by my ability to forget basic hygiene, I mumbled, "What time again?"

"Maybe an hour? Or whenever you can."

Something between a high laugh and a reluctant sigh answered her. "Yeah, that's fine. I'll be there." Nervously, I fumbled over the words, not knowing what she expected or really how to do any of this but wanting to _try_. But normalcy – even silly, stupid little things like grilling on Labor Day or going on _dates _or even having a casual conversation over the phone – had eluded me for too long and I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. "Look, do you want me to bring something?" I asked quietly, thumbing the edge of the nightstand. Granted, my list of possible contributions were limited, mainly consisting of items that belonged in plastic bags or glass bottles, but I could at least be polite and attempt it anyway.

"Just you," she murmured, replying almost immediately. There was an underlying current there, one I'd heard before. It was something unspoken, simmering and bubbling just below the surface, and it effectively banished all of my anxious discomfort and its wake left me breathless and dumb. When I didn't answer, not really even knowing what to say, Bella cleared her throat, restating, "Just bring yourself, okay?"

"Yeah," I breathed, fighting for air. "I said I'd come, okay."

"I just lit the grill, so I need to get back… See you in a bit?" she rushed, familiar warmth creeping back into her tone. I could _hear_ her damned smile.

"Grill, seriously?" I bantered, coughing in exaggeration – mostly to cover the mortifying, girl-like effects of her admission. "If you burn my house down you are in trouble, you know that, right?"

"Shut up, oh, one who only makes ham sandwiches," she spat right back, laughing as if that pang of sadness I'd heard earlier was nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Then, _I_ grinned like the goddamned idiot I was, knowing that I'd done _something_ right.

And like I promised, fifty-eight minutes later, I found myself, hands shoved deep in my pockets, standing and waiting outside of Bella's front door just like always, attempting to calm the hammer in my chest. Only now, instead of seeing bright red painted wood and a shiny brass knocker, a pair of narrowed black eyes set in pale, angular features stared up at me in return.

Her expression was unreadable, perhaps as if she didn't know what to make of me. Or more likely, she was unsure if I was to be let inside or not.

"You're Edward, I assume?" the woman asked in a flat, unaccented soprano. Not moving from her position in the center of the open doorway, effectively blocking my entry, she crossed her arms and tilted her head.

Trying to bite my tongue as well as my lack of patience, I nodded slowly while cataloguing her appearance. Like Bella, Alice was petite in height, a full head shorter than me, but really, that was where their similarities ended. Where Bella was feminine and soft, from the sharp slants of her cheekbones to the pointed toes of her heels, Alice was all angles and straight lines, boy-like almost, despite her thirty years, with slim shoulders and no hips. It was a modern, urban shape that she accentuated with an inky mop of short-cropped but carefully disheveled hair and expensively cut city attire. While I knew virtually nothing of women's fashion, considering her taste in overpriced automobiles, it wasn't hard to guess that the jeans she wore cost far more than denim had any right.

Regardless of her clothes or diminutive stature, I couldn't decide if the woman was angry, curious, annoyed, suspicious, or just indifferent. Her tone gave away nothing for certain and her expression hadn't shifted from the moment that she'd opened the door. Obviously waiting for more of an answer than a wordless nod, her head tilted again, this time opposite, and her shoulders straightened impatiently.

Her scrutiny made me nervous for some reason, so I looked away, pretending to stare at the small garden of yellows and reds at the end of the porch.

"Yeah, that would be me," I muttered, shrugging. After a moment of uncomfortable, silent non-response, I turned back only to find her still staring and I fought the urge to snap in my usual fashion and ask her what the hell her problem was – or at least if she was planning on letting me in the house anytime soon. "And I guess you must be Alice?" I went on dryly, arrogantly quirking one brow as if to tell her I really didn't give a fuck who she was. In my pockets, however, my nails bit into the meat of my palms.

"Alice, for God's sakes let him in!" I heard from inside.

Alice glanced behind her and I watched her shoulders slump, only to quickly straighten once more before she turned back to me. Bella yelled something else and Alice's brow creased. As she – _finally_ – grudgingly stepped aside, I said nothing, only shrugging again and giving her a tight-lipped smile.

It didn't escape my notice that as I walked through door, while she let me pass, her arms never uncrossed and she never took her eyes off of me. I could feel them boring into my back as we passed through the living room, by the toffee-colored walls that I'd painted each night while spilling my secrets and then by the stairs where Bella had finally showed me some of hers. I wondered just how much Bella had told her sister. I wondered what exactly she thought of me. Of Bella. Of Bella _and_ me. By the time I stepped into the kitchen, I realized that that unreadable expression and those few, flat words were not so difficult to discern. It was pure and simple _distrust_. Alice _distrusted_ me. I, of all people, couldn't really blame her, and I nearly laughed at the irony.

"So, I see you two have met?"

My eyes swept the room, pausing the moment I saw her. Bella smiled at me, one of her smiles I'd come to claim as mine, and I gaped, forgetting Alice and doubt and everything else. Absent were the usual tangled ponytail and worn navy pullover. Instead, in their place were long, silky curls and a dark v-neck that made me swallow. I was so used to seeing _my_ Bella, the one who flicked wet paintbrushes at me and fed me brownies at two in the morning that when she made the slightest effort, the man in me didn't know what to do.

"Yes, I suppose… Edward, was it? and I met. You didn't tell me he was such a chatterbox," Alice chirped with faux enthusiasm, effectively pulling me out of my momentary stupor and back to reality. On the surface, her tone said that she was joking, but I wasn't fooled.

Hard black eyes, a fake smile, and still-crossed arms confirmed my suspicions as surely as if she'd yelled it. In instant recognition, I now _knew_ that Alice Brandon wasn't happy that I was here – _at all_. Or maybe it was more that she wasn't happy Bella was here. Either way, despite acknowledging Alice's rightness in distrusting me with her sister, I was fairly certain that she was also a giant bitch, which did not bode well for me. If this kept up, I wasn't sure how long I'd be able to remain civil.

"Alice… don't-"

"No, it's alright," I answered coolly, _trying,_ but assuredly failing, to hide my irritation. "Your sister was very polite. Very inviting."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bella chuckled, her eyes never leaving mine. She crossed the room, setting down a large mixing bowl of something on her way, only stopping when she was right in front of me. Without hesitation, Bella reached across the few inches between us to pull my left hand from my pocket and lifted herself on her toes to kiss my cheek. Admittedly, I was surprised she would be so willing to display any kind of affection in front of her sister, but the moment her lips grazed my jaw, I could not have cared less and my annoyance dissipated.

The hand that wasn't in hers immediately withdrew from my jeans and found her hip to pull her closer. I kissed her forehead and my eyes shut, relishing the heat and touch to which I was swiftly becoming addicted. Lingering, her breath, warm and soft, ghosted across my skin, and I could smell chocolate mingled with her usual perfume. My chest flooded with something akin to elation and I nearly sighed when her fist tightened around my shirt. I was so lost in the sensation of her closeness that it took me a second to realize she was whispering. "I'm sorry, Edward… but thank you for coming. I… missed you."

An annoying harrumph interrupted before I could answer her with the same. "I'm right here, you know."

_Bitch, _immediately came to mind.

Before she pulled away, Bella squeezed my hand and winked. Still facing me, she replied, "I swear I told her to behave." Her voice was just a touch too loud for the room and she cut her eyes to her sister with a look that said more than her words. Then there was a long moment where nothing at all was said out loud. The two women eyed each other in some kind of silent exchange, some wordless conversation that only two people who'd shared a childhood could have. As eyebrows fell and climbed and lips pursed, I was reminded again of the complexity of their relationship. Finally, after a few more stern looks, Alice nodded in some form of reluctant agreement.

Bella turned back to me and grinned, her face clearing of any sign of the silent argument she'd apparently just won. She grabbed my hand again, threading her fingers tightly between mine in reassurance. "I doubt that happened, though. She never does – behave that is. You'll see, I'm sure, if you haven't already.

"Just so you know, I liken Alice to having a chihuahua for a guard dog. Or some other yappy ankle-biter. A lot of bark but no bite. You know the type, just annoying."

I glanced to the side just in time to see Alice's stone façade finally crack as she snorted and muffled a laugh. "You ass. I know you did not just compare me to a dog."

**~.~.~**

Stretched out across cool cotton, my eyes were closed, vainly trying to force real sleep to come. The breeze from the overhead fan tickled my bare chest and over and over, its white noise took me just to the brink of unconsciousness. Only instead of finally finding peace, each time I reached the edge, I fell, plummeting in that never ending dream fall, and jolted back awake. I'd lost count of the number of times I'd fallen off that cliff, but each time I woke, my thoughts automatically drifted back to the feel of Bella's lips pressed almost feverishly against mine when I'd finally left last night after dinner – long after dinner, actually, and much later than I'd originally planned on staying.

Overall, things had gone far better than I'd initially anticipated. After those first few moments of awkwardness and, more so, after whatever silent agreement the sisters had reached, Alice was at the very least polite. In actuality, she ended up being far more than that. By the end of the evening and after a few glasses of chardonnay, she'd given me something that I'd wanted for months – more information.

"How long have you been seeing my sister?" she'd asked not more than a second after Bella slipped outside to feed Garrett the leftovers.

Unsure of what Bella had divulged and completely ill-prepared for that kind of inquiry, I had no clue how to answer her or to what extent. I wasn't sure if there was even a term for what Bella and I were. We were friends who seemed to be heading for more, and in many ways, we were intimate, at least on an emotional level. But we certainly weren't having sex – not that _that _subject hadn't crossed my mind more often than it should, especially in these last few weeks – and that was what I'd assumed Alice had meant, so I fumbled some half-assed, nervous response. When I told her that I'd been the one helping Bella with the house, she smiled – a genuine one.

"It's stupid, you probably think, with all the color and decorating," she commented, waving her hand at the very walls I'd rolled. "But it's a big deal to her. You know this was her dad's place, right?"

I nodded and shoved the last bite of cake in my mouth. "Yeah, I know."

"Does she want to buy it?" Alice asked, and it stunned me that she didn't already know the answer to this.

"She said she didn't. At least not now," I hedged, refusing to give away the rest of that conversation – that this was all some kind of test, one I still didn't really understand myself. And in truth, now, after so many weeks, honestly, I wasn't sure where Bella stood on the house _or_ her test. I only assumed that she was planning on staying; anything otherwise, I didn't want to even consider.

"Bella's doing okay, isn't she?" Alice interjected abruptly. She looked down as she slowly folded and unfolded her napkin. I wasn't oblivious to the fact that her words were slightly slurred and her eyelids drooped. A part of me marveled that I wasn't the one drunk for once, having refused to drink in front of Bella again, but I said nothing and just nodded again, encouraging her to continue talking. I should have been ashamed of myself, knowing that I was prying, that I was hoping for her to spill some new secret.

"I didn't want her to come up here, you know. I still don't want her here. I think she's better off living close to me. And while I don't know you, to be honest - and don't be offended - I'm not really comfortable with her being involved with you, either. Bella's not quite a strong as she comes across. I hope you know that. And there's still so much risk. I don't think you realize how much we worry about her."

"Why?" I asked, unable to stop myself. "Because of James? He's not still dangerous to her, is he?"

A remembered pulse of fury rushed through my veins like wildfire as I considered what he'd possibly done to Bella. The idea of him physically hurting her made me livid beyond reason. She was small, fragile almost, and hurting her was the worst kind of evil. I still had no idea what she'd meant the night she'd finally told me about him. My fist instinctively balled under the table as her words sang through my memory.

_He didn't hurt me – at least not in the way you probably imagine. _

Her expression was suddenly wide and confused. "She hasn't told you?"

"About her divorce? I know that's been finalized." I asked, now just as confused as she appeared, "Or do you mean about her son? She told me a little and showed me his picture. And she told me he'd died a few months after he was born." A ball of discomfort throbbed in the pit of my stomach.

"No… well, yes… but not really," Alice stuttered as she twisted to glance at the door. "It's not my place to say."

"Please?" I breathed, as the throb now writhed and bloomed. Beyond simple curiosity, I _needed_ to understand, even though it should have been Bella there sitting across from me explaining.

Alice stared down, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped her napkin. Underneath the table, I heard the rustle of denim as her knee bobbed up and down. "James, Jr. wasn't really planned, if you know what I mean. James and Bella were barely speaking and he was fucking every woman in his office – she didn't really know that then, though. But one night, it just happened, you know? She never told me the details, but either way, nine months later, James, Jr. came along.

"James was a real asshole during her pregnancy, but he knew better than to leave her during because of 'appearances'. He was _all _about appearances. And Bella just stayed because she somehow thought that every baby deserved a chance at a family, no doubt a result of her mom and dad. Or maybe she was afraid. Or maybe she just didn't see that she had other options. She could have come to me. I begged her." Alice looked up at me, and her eyes were damp and pleading with me to understand.

"The baby was everything to her, her whole world. You should have seen her. She was the best mother. Nothing else mattered but him. Not her mom, not me, not James. She would have done anything for him. She was so happy.

"A few weeks after he came home, though, he started getting sick. Really sick. Bella tried everything, took him to doctor after doctor, begging them to tell her something different. But nothing worked – they told her that it wouldn't. When he died, it was like she died, too. She almost did." The last sentence was spoken in no more than a whisper.

I swallowed and shifted in my chair. It felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Or stabbed. Or shot. Or worse, like I'd been broken but left to live when _she_ had not. This was too similar, too reminiscent. It felt like _that_ pain all over again, the one I relived in my nightmares, the one that haunted me and left me empty and alone.

_Where is she?_ I remembered asking, inhaling the stench of hospital food and rubbing alcohol.

_She didn't make it, son,_ I heard my father say.

I blanched and shook my head, unwilling to lose it in Bella's kitchen, in front of her sister. Instinctively, I'd understood all this, even though I hadn't admitted it. But hearing it spoken aloud in her sister's unsteady, slurred voice was more than I'd foreseen in this conversation. It made my arms and chest tingle and twitch as they remembered the way Bella felt huddled against me, shaking and loosing all her inner demons. It brought back all of those protective feelings and it made me impulsively want to get up from the table to search her out and hold her.

Alice propped her elbow on the table and cradled her chin as she stared at our reflections mirrored back in the darkened window. Her voice was hollow and low. "Bella was in a hospital, you know. For a while – a few months. That's where she was before she came to live with me." She turned to me again, and I was certain my face had drained of all color. "I think you can figure out why without me saying it out loud."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from_ Don't Follow_, by Alice in Chains


	25. To See If I Still Feel

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely ladies, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

_**To See If I Still Feel**_

* * *

The banging just wouldn't stop, no matter how much I willed it away. It was a non-stop, violent metronome that rattled my skull and made me see colorspots. Even from the relative distance of my bedroom, it sounded like someone was taking the door off of its hinges.

Angrily, now wide-awake, I pounded down the stairs in nothing but a pair of faded pajama pants, not bothering with a shirt or shoes. With but a handful of clipped strides, I crossed the kitchen tile, yelling, "What?" just before wrenching the side door open without looking to see who was there.

"Morning."

Bleary-eyed and squinting into the bright morning sun, I glared at the towering outline I knew far too well. My head was already splintering, worse now that I was upright and moving. My eyes ached, my temples throbbed, and the back of my neck felt as though my spine had been detached. I certainly didn't need anything else to make my morning more miserable. And headache or not, I had no desire whatsoever to see him, to talk, or to do whatever the fuck he had in mind. I could actually feel the sharp, prickling barbs of irritation pulsing with my heart rate, and the hand currently wrapped around the doorknob twitched with the urge to slam the door in his face. Because, _of course_, my brother would be grinning at eight in the morning.

"What the hell are you doing here, Emmett?" I snapped.

The corner of his mouth twitched as if he'd expected nothing less of me. "Nice, man. Is that your standard greeting? Or is that just for me?"

_Fuck you. _

As usual, hiding my annoyance was impossible, and one brow cocked automatically in challenge. Biting sarcasm answered, "Pretty standard actually."

Emmett just ignored me, his too-pleasant smile glued firmly in place. Too loudly, he chuckled, "So, are you going to let me in, or what? It's actually hot out here."

Pain lanced behind my eyes at his volume, and for a moment, I simply stood there and roughly massaged my temples, wishing him away. He was pleased with himself, that he'd managed to wake me, apparently unaware that my irritation went beyond having my sleep disturbed. His presence, his entire demeanor – amused dimpled grin included – just pissed me off.

When I saw that my hesitation was only met with seemingly unyielding patience, I pushed my fingers through my tangled mess of hair and huffed, "Goddamnit, it's eight in the morning. It's _not_ hot. Now why the fuck are you here? What do you want? Why aren't you at work? And don't talk so fucking loudly. I have a headache, okay."

At my blunt words, a familiar crease lined his forehead, a tell he didn't know he had but one I'd read since childhood, and his features crumpled. Searching for what I didn't know, narrowed eyes roamed mine, only to briefly shift to my bare torso and then back up again. Something that looked like worry flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced with put-on aggravation, and disdain marred his tone. "I can't just stop by and say hello to my brother?"

Emmett had always been a terrible actor, so it didn't surprise me when the mask of exasperation slipped as quickly as it went up. "That's not why you're here," I accused, knowing my claim was truth. Buried beneath my ire, something rippled in my stomach – guilt, unease, anxiety, perhaps – when I saw him look down at my chest again and frown. I wanted to ask him what the hell he was staring at, but the words caught on my tongue.

Without another word, he muscled through the door, his bulk pushing past me with relative ease. Leaving me there at the entry, standing annoyed and stunned, he called out, waving a hand, "Fine, we're taking the day off because we've got an appointment with the baby doctor later on, but right now, Rose is over at your girlfriend's. She and Bella and that sister of hers are plotting world domination or some shit. Whatever it is women do. They kicked me out, so I'm here."

"Liar," I muttered, leaning against the counter. It took me a moment to register all of his comments, but one phrase in particular hung in the air, twisting my insides in entirely different and not necessarily uncomfortable ways. It seemed to echo off the walls and repeat without my permission. Without thinking, I mumbled an irresolute, "And she's not my damned girlfriend."

Emmett turned, his shoes squeaking on the floor from the morning dew. His dark eyes danced, worry now replaced by amusement. Laughing, he argued, "Yes, she is. Don't even try to say she's anything else. Only a girlfriend could ever have the patience to deal with your shit and you know it. By the way, we've had this conversation before.

"Plus, I _like_ Bella. She's good for you, you know. Since she showed up you've been almost tolerable. I bet you can't wait until Alice leaves."

For some reason, I couldn't find it in me to refute his statements. Bella _was_ good for me – too good. The selfish, too-hopeful part of me wanted her to wear _that_ title – _girlfriend_ – as juvenile as it sounded and as ill-deserving and incapable as I was of having it. I liked how it sounded, how it made her somehow mine. It gave me some claim to her. And part of me wanted movies and flowers and other ridiculous nonsense. I wanted permission to touch her when I wanted, to put my mouth on her, to be as close to her physically as I was emotionally. I wanted to forget the last four years of my life and to just be normal. _With her_. I wanted to forget _both_ of our pasts and just try to fucking _be_ for once. I couldn't deny that it was more than just a part of me; I wanted that more than anything.

Padding over to the refrigerator, Emmett went on as if he didn't notice my silent contemplation or the quickening of my breathing. "Okay, fine. I'm lying. Maybe I just wanted to see how you were doing and how you were handling not having Bella around as much.

"So shoot me, Eddie. I mean, after that little performance of yours a few weeks ago, I think I have the right to be _concerned_."

And like that, my veins flooded with ice water, the spell of wishful thoughts broken by the reminder of reality and my failures. My face immediately fell into a sharp grimace, half angry that he'd raised that particular topic and half embarrassed, knowing what he'd likely witnessed during my drunken rage. Lost in everything else over these last weeks, I'd thankfully managed to push that night away, to pretend that it had never happened. Of course, Emmett would remember, just like the rest of the family. Where Bella allowed me to forget, they were always there to remind.

Heat climbed my neck and colored my cheeks, and I fought the urge to leave the room, to run away, wishing that there was some abyss that could swallow me whole. Stiffly, my fists balling around the edge of countertop behind me, I replied, "_Right_. Let me guess, Mom sent you."

Emmett glanced up from behind the door of the refrigerator, his eyes wide and confused by my response and seemingly oblivious to the reason for my bitterness. "Actually, no. She and Dad asked me to check on you last week when you weren't picking up the phone. I told them both to back off."

_What the…_ my mind stuttered, suddenly off kilter. Unsure if I'd heard him correctly, I asked him to repeat himself.

"I told them to leave you alone." Emmett shrugged his wide shoulders and he casually pulled out two sodas. "Coke?"

I reached up just in time to catch the cold can flying at my face. "And what's different now?" I hedged.

"Where's your aspirin?"

Distracted by his non-answer, I mumbled and pointed to the cabinet beside the refrigerator. "What's different, Em?"

After a quick rummage through my cabinets, Emmett turned to me and shrugged again. His head tilted to the side and his jaw flexed and rolled as if he were deciding on the spot whether or not to answer truthfully. "I got impatient."

"For what?"

He glanced at the floor in a sign of what I could only call nerves. Hesitantly, he walked over and leaned against the counter beside me, mimicking my stilted pose. Gone was the cheer or the aggravation or any other emotion I'd seen. He looked up and met my incredulous stare with one of sadness. "Maybe for an apology and a thank you."

I blanched, uncertain of where he was going. "For?"

The loud crack of aluminum punctuated the silence in the room, followed by a shake of pills inside of plastic. "Fuck, I don't know. Maybe for hauling your passed-out ass up to that hotel room and convincing Mike to keep his prick mouth shut about the whole thing."

His big paw extended, waiting for me to do the same. Confused, I held out my palm and started when two white pills fell in my hand.

"Ed, you gotta learn to help yourself. You don't have to be miserable when there are ways not to be."

"Yeah, I know," I muttered hoarsely, shaking my head as I stared at the pills in my hand, knowing that he wasn't talking about my headache. He might as well have punched me in the gut. I felt like I was falling, like my base had been torn out from beneath me. The embarrassment was excruciating, muffling my voice with its weight, but at the same time, deep down, there was some semblance of something else, a carrot dangling in front me if I would just reach out and try… _relief_. I swallowed, pushing down a lump of salt and acid, and ducked my head. "Thanks, Em."

**~.~.~**

Warily, I pushed the door open, wincing at the whining creak of metal against metal. It'd been months – _years_ – since the hinges had seen any form of use, so the old oak moved slowly, brushing across the dusty carpet and revealing a world I'd refused to acknowledge. It was dark now, both outside and inside the room, and all I could make out were the outlines of the windows around closed blinds and black shapes pushed against the walls. But I knew exactly what was there and what I'd see once light was shed.

I'd see pale, feminine pinks. By the antique white dresser, there would be a bulletin board with dozens of pictures and comics and post-its tacked with neon pins. Wrapped around the upper left bed post, I'd see my great grandmother's feather boa. In the corner, there would be a small desk and a worn journal. I'd see _her_, the evidence that she'd left behind from childhood and what I couldn't bring myself to ever touch.

_Her name scrawled in broad painted calligraphy on the wall… A jewelry box littered with girlish pearls and bangles... A smattering of clothes hanging untouched in the closet… A picture of her at eight, flying through the air on an old chain swing… And me standing behind her, pushing her higher still just to hear her laughter…._

Before I flicked the switch, I closed my already stinging eyes, fighting the lapping waves of nausea that rocked my weak stomach. When my chest began to burn and stretch, I realized that I'd been holding my breath – in anticipation, perhaps, but more likely in sheer dread of what I knew would come but stupidly hoped would not. Out of air, my lungs angrily stuttered against my brain's will and I inhaled a shaky breath through my nose, as my hands mechanically reached out to grip the doorframe to hold myself up.

It smelled like _her_.

_Gardenias and youth. _

After all this time, it _still _smelled like Maria.

Everything from this afternoon faded, my brother's voice lost as my memory assaulted me with a violence I hadn't experienced in only God knew how long. And I suddenly couldn't fathom what had possessed me to try _this. Now._ How I could think that anything would be different was beyond me.

The waves of nausea morphed into torrential crashes, shaking my knees with their force. Bile rose up my esophagus and my heart hammered a pained, disjointed rhythm against my ribcage. I didn't smell gardenias anymore; no, my nostrils flooded with gasoline and salt and blood. And I could hear ear-piercing screams over the rushing in my ears. My vision blurred and everything in me constricted and contracted, as if my body were seizing and tearing in two.

_I hate you, Edward. I hate you…_

My insides rolled and a sob tore through my chest. "I know! God, I fucking know, okay. What do you want me to do?"

Somehow, my hand found the doorknob, yanking it shut as I stumbled backward into the hall. My spine slammed against the far wall, hard enough to shake the hanging frames, and my body crumpled to the floor. My palms pressed against the hollows of my eyes to stem the hurt, to stop the visions that now danced in front of me. But it was too late and I coughed and gagged, choking on the tears I couldn't control.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours as I cried out of guilt, out of the aching that never seemed to stop, and out of frustration that my mind wouldn't allow me to have anything else even when I tried.

**~.~.~**

At some point, a light tapping, reminiscent of my morning wake-up, pulled me from my misery, wrenching my head up from my knees. Unlike this morning, however, this was no relentless barrage of crashing fists. Instead, it was a tentative, soft knock that paused in hesitation. Anything else I'd have ignored, but that soft tap seemed to resonate, to mimic the ache in my chest.

Too tired and numb to feel anything other than vague curiosity, my feet sluggishly found the floor again, and for the second time today, I found myself descending the stairs in search of sound. Dimly, I recognized that I probably looked like utter shit, that my face was likely still puffy and swollen and that my eyes were no doubt rimmed red, but for some reason, my feet didn't care. _I_ didn't care.

When I opened the door, that all changed and my weary apathy vanished.

In front of me stood the one person I actually would have wanted to see, but when I looked at her, it was as though I were staring at a mirror. Her shoulders were drawn and tight, defensively curved inward, and her arms were crossed over her chest as if she were trying to hold herself together. She seemed so small, so thin and delicate, so breakable, and my whole being woke and flooded with alarm.

Normally vibrant and alive, her eyes were flat and defeated, the hollows stained by mascara. Saying nothing, Bella looked down, behind me, beside me, anywhere but directly _at _me, reminding me of myself when I was embarrassed by my own weakness. I could see her small frame shaking, fighting to hold in her emotion, but the quiver of her bottom lip told me she was on the brink.

She was in pain. _That kind of pain_ – the kind that ripped and clawed, the kind that had knocked me on my back only an hour ago. It made me want to throw things on her behalf. Anger welled in my chest, not _at_ her but _for_ her. I fucking hated seeing _her_ like this and I wanted to destroy whoever or whatever caused it.

I didn't know what to do, how to help her. I couldn't even handle my own shit, and indecision and insecurity froze me in place. For what felt like an eternity, I just stared, frantically wanting to pull my own hair out, but unable to move, struck dumb and mute.

Alice's voice came to me unbidden.

_Bella's not quite as strong as she comes across... _

_I hope you know that. When he died, it was like she died, too. She almost did… _

_Bella was in a hospital, you know… I think you can figure out why without me saying it out loud._

_Suicide, _screamed in my ears, clanging and threatening to pull me under with its drowning weight. It was the first time I'd allowed myself to actually voice the word, internally or aloud, since my conversation with Alice. It sounded so wrong, so wretchedly wrong. It grated and pierced through me, and I nearly gasped from the sensation that the thought of her taking her own life elicited.

Without thinking, suppressing all my own earlier angst and despair, understanding that it was my turn – _my_ turn to be more for her, instead of our usual – I immediately gathered her in my arms. The moment I made contact, she folded into my chest, her whole body erupting in sobs that matched anything I'd experienced on my hallway floor.

"Shh," I soothed, holding her as tightly against me as I could. I cradled the back of her head, gently running my fingers through her hair just as she'd done for me when I was sick, drunk, and sobbing on that bathroom floor at the hotel. Over and over, I repeated the only words that came to mind, too fraught with worry over the fragile woman clinging to me to balk at the irony. "It's okay. It's okay, Bella."

She shook that much harder, and I could feel hot tears wetting my shirt and neck. The bite of her nails barely registered. I was too lost to care about any of that. I felt helpless, powerless to do anything but hold her and hope that I could at least do this right.

When her knees buckled, I carefully lifted her, startled by how light she felt and how her body willingly left the ground to curl up in my arms. Slowly, trying my damnedest not to jostle her, I carried her into the living room, settling down on the couch but not allowing her to leave my lap.

Eventually, the feeling left my legs, but I didn't dare to pull away. Instead, I shifted and lay back length-wise on the sofa, pulling her on top of me. Bella sighed and huddled against me, tightening her arms around my waist, and gradually, her shudders slowed until finally they were no more. Closing my eyes, I could feel her ribcage and chest rhythmically rising and falling against mine as she drifted to sleep.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice garbled and hoarse.

"It's okay," I answered quietly, relieved and grateful that whatever demon of hers had gripped her was spent.

"Alice and I…"

"Shh, Bella. Go to sleep. You can tell me tomorrow." I gently traced the tips of my fingers up and down her back, rubbing in small, calming circles.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again.

"Nonsense," I breathed, peppering slow, closed-mouth kisses along her temple and cheek. So softly I knew that she couldn't hear, I mouthed, "I can be there for you, too. I can try, at least."

.

.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Hurt_, by Johnny Cash [As much as I love the NiN version, Cash's version hits exactly the mood/tone I wanted]


	26. With These Broken Wings I'm Falling

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

**With These Broken Wings I'm Falling**

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Warmth surrounded me.

It was an oh-so-pleasant, comforting blanket of heat and pressure and it seemed to hug and cling to my body, shifting in synchrony with even the subtlest of my movements. Drifting in and out of the realm of half-sleep haze, my mind was fuzzy and slow and my limbs were heavy. But somehow, I felt _content_, strangely at peace with this heat and the way it invaded my space and sank into my bones, the way it wrapped itself around me. On some level, beyond the pervasive sense of being well – of being _whole_ – I knew that I had to be dreaming, because I felt _too_ good. I couldn't recall the last time I'd felt this way and I wasn't sure if I wanted to wake up at all.

Gradually, as much as I willed otherwise, however, light glowed bright red behind my closed lids, pulling me further and further away from my half-dream. Sounds became louder and I knew that soon my moment of bliss would be spent. Reluctantly, I sighed and inhaled, still refusing to open my eyes.

With that first lungful of air, familiar perfume hit my senses and my entire body stiffened, immediately jolting awake. My fingers tensed and found supple skin and muscle beneath them, and my frame registered that the pressure of which I'd dreamed was actually real weight on top of me. And like the rush of a swollen river, everything from the night before came hurtling back, wrenching my eyes open.

Still asleep, Bella was draped across me, her face buried against my chest, turned such that all that I could see was a mass of dark brown tangles and all that I could feel was the slow rhythm of her breathing paced with mine.

Seeing her there, _feeling_ her, a throb of something indecipherable, some blend of anxiety and satisfaction, assaulted me and left me reeling. It was impossible for me to reconcile these two warring emotions, impossible to segregate and parse them because they were too intimately related. I felt _satisfied_ – even proud – in that last night, even after completely losing my shit from just stepping inside of Maria's old room, I'd managed to push all of my failure aside, to not be my selfish self, and I thought that in some way, maybe I'd done something right. In one of her rare moments of weakness, I had helped Bella for once.

But like always, there was dread there, too, because weighing down those pleasant thoughts was the ever-present sinking sensation from understanding just how poorly equipped and inadequate I was, how I'd end up likely fucking it up, and how I would likely end up hurting her more than she already was. I didn't know what to do, what I could do – what I _should_ do. So for long moments, I simply lay there, dumb, indecisive, and uncertain, unwilling to move for fear of waking her, and more so, afraid of her reaction.

As the room brightened, I stared, watching the slight rise and fall of her back. The clawing, frantic grip from the night before had slackened, but still, she clung to me. Without my permission, my own hand rose and my fingers tentatively threaded through her hair, gently combing through the tangles, brushing it away from her face. The crease that had marred her forehead had vanished, her skin once more smooth and flawless. Her face was relaxed, serene almost, and that throb pulsed again, this time ruled by the warmth of satisfaction and contentment. It was overwhelming, stunning in its force, and for just this moment, I chose to feel only this. I had been strong enough for her. I had been there to coax her from the edge of her anguish. I had been there to still her quivering body and to absorb her tears. This feeling was new and strong, even more so than the night she'd told me of her son.

Unthinking, I traced down her cheek, thumbing away the few remaining black specks of mascara, then moving to the pale column of her neck, and finally to the rise of her collarbone. At the contact, her head tilted upward, her eyes still closed. Her lips parted just so, and it was impossible to ignore how beautiful she looked, how peaceful.

Unexpectedly, Bella shifted, unconsciously sliding until her body was flush against me, and my breathing stopped, caught in my throat. A shiver of something else altogether rolled down my spine, collecting in a low burn at the base of my stomach. Familiar yet unfamiliar tension pulled at my abdomen, a need I hadn't loosed in God only knew how long, and I struggled not to move, not to allow my baser self to seek out that motion again. Like a spring, my body coiled and strained, wanting against my mind's wishes. _Something else new_, I sighed, wryly shaking my head, trying to ignore everything south of my chest. _Goddamnit, Edward. _

Though if I were honest, this wasn't new at all; no, this was what I tried my damnedest to suppress when I was with her, never mind that each time her mouth met mine, it was increasingly more difficult.

Self-loathing reared its ugly head and I hated myself for thinking about her this way, now. It was wrong – so,_ so_ wrong. She came to me for comfort, and in return, I was ogling, contemplating, and wanting more than anything that she'd move against me again. My eyes snapped shut, my teeth gritting, angry with myself. I couldn't have that with her. I couldn't expect that. Fuck, I didn't even know if she _could_ feel the same for me, considering. And no matter how much I wanted her – all of her – I'd ruin it all anyway and hurt her that much more.

"Hey."

_No. Damn it, not now_, my mind stammered, begging that she couldn't feel me.

The sharpness of her chin dug into my sternum. "Hey," she repeated, her voice groggy and thick from sleep. "What's wrong?"

Warily, I opened my eyes, swallowing when I saw her lips turned up into a small, shy smile. "You okay?" I murmured, absently twirling a strand of her hair around my knuckle.

Bella's eyes were still puffy and swollen but there was life and vibrancy there once more. A shadow flickered across her face, and her cheeks blushed pink as she tried to apologize. "I didn't mean to-"

I silenced her with my forefinger. "Stop. I told you last night. It's okay."

Her lips widened and her expression lifted, still slightly abashed, but it was definitely better than that godawful stricken look I'd seen last night. "Thank you, Edward. You-… _thank you_." There was relief and gratitude there, and my seesawing, borderline bipolar emotions struck again.

I smiled in return, forcing down the ball of doubt and guilt. "Anytime. I mean that." Where to go from here, I wasn't certain. My curiosity won out, however, and before I could stop myself, my mouth was moving. "Did you and… your sister fight?" Like always, I regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

Bella frowned and averted her eyes. "Yes… no… maybe. I don't know."

"Hey," I whispered, hating that she wouldn't look at me and blaming myself for my stupidity. Two fingers hooked under her chin, gently tilting her face back toward me. "Look at me. It's not my business. You don't have to. I-, I shouldn't have asked. Tell me to fuck off."

"No," she breathed. "It's okay. I just-, I hate fighting with her. Even though this wasn't really a fight." Something bitter bubbled beneath her vagueness. Bitterness wasn't Bella, at least not the Bella I'd seen. Everything in me screamed for me to fix that, to make it go away.

"I don't normally hit women, but I'll make an exception if you want." While my tone was light and my words were in jest, in reality, they weren't. Any friendly feelings I'd had for her sister had been obliterated the moment Bella showed up on my doorstep crying. Hidden behind my put-on façade, I struggled not to jump off the couch and run down to her house so that I could unleash on Alice myself. _Fuck her._

She laughed. "Don't tempt me."

A long moment of silence passed and that hint of amusement faded. I felt my shirt gather in her fist and when I glanced to the side, I saw her knuckles were white, pale against the dark hue.

"I've told you that we don't see eye to eye on some things, right? In the past couple of years… I made some… _decisions_ that I wish I hadn't, and Alice doesn't trust me here. She thinks that I should move closer to her, or hell, move in with her. We argued about that for a long time, though this time it got a little out of hand. She really thinks living here isn't a good idea. And she's worried about me being alone. She's not convinced that I can handle it."

"Is that all?" I couldn't stop the pang of guilt over the fact that I knew more of what was hidden behind her admission than she realized. How to tell her, I had no clue, but I understood that now was not the right time. There was fear there, too, not fully aware of her reasons and where she stood now, if there really was still risk. Part of me, the one that shrank and cringed every time my head stuttered the word, _suicide_, couldn't find fault in her sister's logic. Of course, the other part, the louder, self-serving part of me, railed against the notion of her leaving, regardless of her own best interest.

Bella's eyes widened and there was a hint of dampness gathering along her lower lids, shining in the early morning window light. I felt her take a shaky breath, and my body involuntarily stilled, waiting for the worst. I assumed that her sister rightfully told her to stay the hell away from me. I hoped it was just that, that it wasn't some psychological mindfuck about her past. From experience, I knew all about familial blame and misguided _help_.

But her hesitancy tore at me; it made my lungs constrict and my chest burn. That glimmer of unshed tears made me despise her sister like nothing else. "It's ok-," I started, only to be interrupted by a sharp punch of air and a rush of words.

"She told me I had no business seeing you, that I wasn't ready for that. That it wasn't fair to you. That I was being selfish." Her voice was so small, as if she feared what I'd say or do. This was the first time I'd ever heard any hint of doubt from her over us. _Over me_. I'd pushed her away time and time again, revealing every bit of my fucked up mind and stunted emotions, and every time, I had been met by nothing but confidence and assurance. I was the one with doubts, not her. And my doubts had _nothing_ to do with her.

_What the ever-loving... _Stunned, I just stared, mouth agape. In response, hot anger spiked over her sister's interference, that Alice had tried to take away the one bright spot in my miserable life. But then, repeating her words in my head, it struck me, and my anger cooled and I laughed. Hard and inappropriately. I laughed because the whole thing was utterly and completely ridiculous. And it was all so fucking backward.

Confused by my reaction, Bella's brow furrowed and she frowned at me, her eyes tense and probing. "What's so damned funny?" she demanded, a sliver of that confidence I knew returning.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "I'm assuming that you haven't told your sister how screwed up _I_ am, have you? Otherwise, I think her message would have been a little different." My voice dropped to a whisper, "But I don't mind you being selfish. God knows, I am." I didn't say the rest – that seeing me wasn't fair to _her _not to_ me_. I didn't want to think about that, not now.

Bella's lips twitched, and before I could blink, she crawled up my body until her face was even with mine. Her weight pressed me down into the couch cushion, and I could feel _every_ single line of her body flush against me. A low, just audible groan escaped, as that low burn from before ignited once more. Like a light switch, the air suddenly changed; it was charged, zinging with an unseen current. My gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering and mesmerized by the tip of her tongue as it swiped across her lower lip. When I looked back up, a mirror greeted me.

"I haven't brushed my teeth," she murmured, staring at me with what I could only describe as want. I didn't understand it – how she could go from near tears over fighting with her sister to this, and more so, how she could possibly feel for me what I felt for her. It wasn't right. But right now, right here, swimming in electrified air, I couldn't find it in me to care and I shoved everything else away.

"Me neither," I replied softly, placing both hands on either side of her face. Before she could answer, before I could think and convince myself to stop, I pulled her face to mine. The moment my lips touched hers, her mouth slanted and her lips parted immediately in an open and enthusiastic invitation.

Over and over, again and again, our mouths met, opening and sliding against each other, instantly finding a rhythm that only belonged to us, one that seemed to thrum and pull us closer together. It was as though I couldn't get close enough fast enough.

This kiss was not like our other kisses. This was not hesitant or soft or gentle. No, this kiss was heated and demanding, despite what we'd both been through over the last twenty-four hours – or perhaps, it was _because_ of what we'd been through. It was built up frustration and anger and sorrow and a desire for more. It was borne of defiance and unmet need, and I could feel it jolting through my veins and in the desperate strike of my heart against my ribcage.

Lost in sensation and in the haze of lust, I barely registered her sitting up in my lap, pulling me by the shirt with her. My body simply followed, unwilling and unable to part from hers. Between sloppy, eager kisses, I felt my shirt sliding up my torso, and then cool air pebbled my skin. I wasn't sure if she'd pulled it off or if it'd been me, but either way, the next thing I knew, our mouths were interrupted again by a swath of blue cotton lifting over her head.

Her skin was almost feverish against mine, separated by nothing but a thin, cream-colored bra, and my head dropped to her shoulder to stare. It had been so long – _so very long_ – since I'd felt this, since I'd touched a woman like this. And I couldn't recall it ever feeling quite this good. The parts of me that I'd relegated as dead and lost were suddenly buzzing and wide-awake, taking over, begging.

My hands dropped and found her waist, framing her figure, and then crept upward until my thumbs skimmed the edge of fabric and the curves beneath. Her breathing deepened, and with each intake of air, I felt _more_ until my thumbs were willingly tracing the soft undersides of her breasts. My face turned, burying itself in the crook of her neck, and I could only squeeze my eyes together and groan.

"Jesus," I whispered, and then repeated it when I felt her roaming the planes of my bare chest and abdomen, exploring. With each pass of her short-cut nails, shockwaves flew up and down my spine. She was so warm and so soft and she felt so fucking good in my hands – too good. I was awash, foggy and struck dumb, feeling _everything_. That low burn in the pit of my stomach was no longer low. And it was impossible for her not to know it.

I dragged my lips up her neck to claim her mouth again, and when I did, she whimpered against me. That little sound, that copy of mine, full of need and desire for an outlet, nearly destroyed me.

I wanted her. Right, wrong, whether it would end in disaster or not, I wanted her like nothing I'd wanted before. I wanted to _feel_.

Just as I shifted to lay her back, a loud, wailing racket, coupled with a teeth chattering vibration, went off like a siren. Startled, I abruptly pulled away, halting my fingers' wandering. Bella's eyes widened and she huffed in irritation. "Just ignore it," she mumbled, pulling my face back toward hers. Her lips were swollen and red and her face was flushed so beautifully.

Shrugging, still drunk, I smiled against her lips, fully prepared to do just that and to resume where we'd left off. But the damned thing wouldn't stop ringing, and as soon as it went to voice, it started again.

"Fuck," Bella muttered, clambering over me to reach for a bag I hadn't even noticed when she'd arrived.

When she settled back in the space beside me, I grimaced, frustrated and still too aroused for comfort. "You can say that again."

"Yeah, what is it, Alice?" Annoyance colored her tone, but the way her teeth worried her lower lip told me the truth, and I stifled my own issues.

"Yes. I'm fine."

She glanced over to me and offered a small, apologetic smile. "I'm sure you can guess where I am.

"No, it's none of your damned business.

"Oh, really?" I wondered just what Alice had said because Bella's tone was biting with sarcasm. Her fingers drummed against the armrest and her jaw tensed.

"Yes, I know," she snapped, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the backrest. Seeing her exasperation, I reached for her hand and threaded my fingers through hers. Her head turned and her eyes opened, gazing into mine. "Sorry," she whispered.

"I know you didn't mean to, Alice. You just… you just don't understand. It's different, okay. Let it go.

"Don't cry. Please? Look, I didn't mean to scare you."

I wanted to grab the phone and explain to Alice about crying. But I didn't. Instead, I slowly rose, reluctantly mouthing to Bella for her to continue, and made my way to the kitchen to give her some privacy.

Inside the quiet of my kitchen, I could still hear snippets of their conversation, but not everything. Tired and still breathing hard from what I could only call a high school-esque make-out session, I leaned against the edge of the counter.

"Yeah, it's okay now," I heard her say.

Alone now and still half-naked, the high I'd felt, the utter intoxication of being surrounded by her and flooded with lust, evaporated, and I realized just what I'd done, what I'd allowed, and how close I'd been to having more.

"No, I'll be home in a little bit."

"What the fuck did you just do, Edward?" I muttered to myself, scrubbing my face. "You idiot. You stupid, goddamned idiot."

"Yeah, Ali, I love you, too."

Guilt surged, this time churning with the sting of impending loneliness. Bella would hate me. She would regret this, my mind repeated. My stomach suddenly felt empty and nauseated, rolling each time I heard her speak.

"No, this doesn't change Friday. I'll talk to Edward and see if he'll come."

Weighted and already drowning, my head barely lifted at the sound of my name. I swallowed, but my throat was dry and parched and my lungs were tight. Time seemed to slow, and the only thing I could think of was escape. My eyes closed and my fingers twitched, wanting nothing more than to reach inside the cabinet next to me.

"Hey."

My head shook, not wanting to look at her, not knowing what I'd see. "I'm sorry," I managed. "I-, I shouldn't have done that. You were-… I took advanta-"

"What?

The soft pad of bare feet against tile sounded loud in the room. Before I could muster a reply, cotton sleeves wrapped around my waist and hair tickled my jaw. "No, you didn't," she mumbled against my chest. A palm reached up and flattened over my heart.

"I'd say it was more the opposite. If I recall, _I_ was the one stripping _you_. God, do you have any idea how…" She grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. Where I anticipated anger, sorrow, something, there was nothing but a wide grin plastered across her face.

"We're not done with this, by the way," she continued, as her fingers walked down to my stomach. Sparks skittered everywhere she touched, driving away my insecurity, at least temporarily. Tentatively, my arms snaked around her, my heart pounding again, stunned that so few words could affect me so much. She leaned up on her tiptoes and brushed my lips with hers. "I've got to go home and sort this shit out with Alice. But we will resume this… if you want."

"Are you sure? I mean, Bella, what are you doing with me?" I breathed. "I'm-, fuck, why?"

"I told you, Edward. Do you really think you're alone in this?"

I pulled her against me, pushing my nose into her hair, inhaling perfume and the faint scent of sweet flowers. My eyes shut and I admitted the truth, "I'll end up fucking this up, Bella. I know it. I'll hurt you."

Bella leaned back, not speaking until I'd opened my eyes. Anger flashed across her face. "Do not treat me with kid gloves. Not you. I know what I want and I understand what I'm getting into." Her anger faltered and she eyed me tensely. Softly, sadly, she asked, "But do you? Maybe Alice is right."

"I don't care," I answered, unwilling to see doubt from her again. I took a deep breath to steel the nerves fluttering my insides, wanting her to know the real truth, as difficult as it was for me to say, to admit my weakness and dependence. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in years. Don't you get it? You're the only good thing in my life."

.

.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Savin' Me_, by Nickelback


	27. I Need Your Grace to Remind Me

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you to two ladies that just rock my socks, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. And another thank you and MWAH! to the lovely Bittenbee for naming the chap. :D

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_**I Need Your Grace to Remind Me**_

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I tried not to glare in the rearview mirror or drum my fingers on the leather of the steering wheel. I attempted to hide and stifle my irritation – more like, outright fury. With every ounce of self-control I possessed, I struggled and fought to remain civil and to preserve a mask of cool impassivity and disregard. In other words, I _tried_ to pretend like I didn't give a fuck that she was there in the back seat of my car and that I didn't notice the poorly disguised pointed looks or the way her lips mashed together in judgment.

My success was questionable.

As evidenced by the disaster of my father's party, not to mention the countless other failures, pretending was _not_ my strong suit. Simply put, feigning indifference took more effort than I could muster, especially when every other thought my mind spun was filled with curses and epithets, ones I wished I could loose more than just about anything. The urge – no, _need_ – to unleash clawed my insides and made my muscles lock and ache.

Alice Brandon, sister or not, could fuck off for all I cared. Like an eager child waiting for Christmas morning, I was already counting down the minutes until she was supposed to leave. I would even gas up that ridiculous yellow Porsche for her if it meant that she'd be gone sooner.

_Behave_,_ Edward,_ I silently chanted each time my gaze drifted to the mirror. With a deep breath, I reminded myself that if I were to give in and tell _Ms. Brandon_ exactly what I thought of her, I'd regret it later because I wouldn't be the one bearing the consequences. Bella would, and then I'd feel like shit. For her and her alone, I kept my mouth shut and watched the curving double yellow line.

Regardless of my marginal control, I knew that it was foolish of me to be here, trying to play nice and normal, like nothing was wrong and all was well again. It wasn't. Never mind that Bella called me the afternoon after she left my house and lightly said that they had made their peace. _I_ did not feel _peaceful_. In reality, the more I thought about their whole situation, the angrier I became. Familiar heat spread through my veins and warmed my face.

With nauseating clarity, I remembered every shudder and heard every sob her sister had caused. I remembered the feel of her clinging to me and buckling, lost in her sadness and disappointment. Bella might have forgiven her sister, but I certainly hadn't, and unlike Bella, I had the luxury of having no such expectation. In all her wisdom and supposed concern, Alice had hurt Bella, and for that, I found that my blood still boiled, bubbling for an outlet.

Half way to Port Angles, my head was already throbbing from the spike in my blood pressure and like always, my first inclination was to turn back around or to find the nearest bar so that I could douse my discontent with my scotch. Before the thought was even complete, the recollection of that all-too-tempting soothing burn made my mouth parch and my knee bob.

_Stop it right now_, I pleaded, grinding my teeth in frustration. Anger, just like my goddamned memory, _always_ took me here. It made me want to run and hide inside myself and just disappear. But I wasn't that stupid. Drinking around Bella like _that_ – drinking how I always seemed to want to drink… to blackness and numbness – was an option that I couldn't stomach. I knew precisely, without question, what would happen were I to allow myself to lose control in front of her again. The image of Bella picking me up off the bathroom tile floor and cradling me in my drunkenness made me sick at myself, even as some darker part of me craved the relief of just giving in and letting go. It was a complex emotion, one that sucked me dry and left me gasping and exhausted. It was some twisted blend of need and anticipation tangled up in a web of fear and self-hatred. I wanted that smoky oak-tinged taste of scotch, or whiskey, or just _something_ to numb me, like I wanted air, yet at the same time, I despised myself for my weakness and cowardice. Sitting here in this car, I felt like I was on the edge of some tall cliff, looking down into a black abyss, knowing that the fall was inevitable.

Staring at the road ahead, covered by decades-old trees with their sprawling branches and leaves, it looked like we were driving through a dark, endless tunnel. On the sides, blurred tree trunks and road signs formed long gray walls, and far in the distance, there was a small sphere of light. It was so far in front of me. The parallel was unsettling and I only prayed that the low dusky light in the cabin hid the tension I had no hope of concealing. Hoping to hide my inner turmoil, I forced myself to loosen my grip and to drop one hand to my lap in some effort at casualness. My fingers dug into the top of my thighs, my nails biting through the denim and granting me just a hint of satisfaction.

Breathing in once more, I concentrated on the faint floral fragrance that tinted the air, trying my damnedest to drive away the spiraling self-loathing and to put back on a relaxed face. I was here for _her_. Not because I wanted to be, but because Bella _asked _me to be, and apparently, right or wrong, selfish or not, I was now incapable of telling her no. Even if it meant sitting through dinner with her sister and swallowing back the venom that she deserved.

_At least Emmett will be there. _As bizarre as it sounded, that knowledge granted me some sense of relief.

So buried in my own head, I almost came out of my skin when I felt the light pressure of a hand on the top of my forearm. When I stole a glance to the right, Bella was faced forward, staring at the oncoming road, as if she were not even aware that we were touching. Her expression gave her away, however; her lips were turned up into a small smirk and there were faint creases in the corners of her eyes. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why she looked so damned amused. Nothing about this situation was funny.

Frowning at windshield, I grumbled an annoyed, "What?"

Her eyes darted over to me and her smile stretched, one corner of mouth lifting slightly higher than the other. "You didn't have to drive, you know."

With but those few words, I knew exactly what she was doing. Just like the last time we'd driven together in my car when I'd been strung out and dreading my father's party, Bella somehow saw my sinking mood and compounding temper, and like always, she seemed to instinctively know what to say to pull me out from the bog.

Even as she joked with me, her palm slid up and down my forearm as if to soothe me, recognizing my struggling volatility. It _bothered_ me that she knew me so well, that I couldn't hide, that I _needed_ to be soothed. But at the same time, I wasn't sure if I'd ever get used to her touching me, so like an addict, I'd take any excuse offered. On me, her skin was hot and smooth and it felt like gliding silk. When she laid her hand directly on top of my hand and slid her fingers to fit between the spaces of mine, a sliver of my ice melted.

I attempted a smile, shaking my head at the absurdity of the effect she had on me. With everything I had, I shoved my anger and anxiety away and tried once more to pretend. "So, what? We'd just pile in your truck? Or in that toy of your sister's?"

Bella turned her head and looked back at Alice. Laughing, she rolled her eyes. "What is it with you two and my truck?"

"Don't get me started," Alice bantered from behind me. "That thing's better off in a junkyard."

When I'd said the word _sister_, my gaze had involuntarily flickered to the rearview mirror. For a split second, Alice and I stared at each other through the reflection. While she laughed and jabbed at Bella's truck's expense, her dark eyes were wary and tight, probing, likely judging me and finding me lacking. It reminded me immediately of the look she'd given me when we first met on Bella's porch. Alice distrusted me – _still_ – and frankly, I was fine with it. The feeling was certainly mutual.

"I can't believe you're finally thirty. You're old now," Alice teased, abruptly changing topic and breaking away from our silent confrontation.

"Shut up, Al. You are and will always be older than me. So kiss it, grandma," Bella punched back. "I bet you're already dying to cover the gray. Oh, wait, that's right… you do!"

"Ass. God, listening to you, you'd think I'm fifty. Gray has nothing to do with it," she went on, patting her head in exaggeration. "This color fits and you know it."

It took me a moment to follow their jabs. But when it hit me, it felt like I'd been knocked down by a wall of bricks. Their voices faded as I spiraled down yet again, and what hold I'd managed over my emotions vanished. Silently, with mindless, rote flicks of my wrist, I followed the curves of the road into town. All the while, my insides contracted and curled, stealing my breath.

It was such a little thing – a goddamned birthday – and it was so stupid that it made me feel like this. I felt like a fucking girl. But once again, I was confronted by just how selfish and unobservant I was, how much I took and how little I gave, and how incapable I was of being anything remotely healthy or normal for her. Once again, I understood just how far apart we were and how ill-deserving I was of her attention – of anyone's. She knew me in all my transparent fucked-up glory, but for all the time we'd spent together and our moments of dependence, I still knew next to nothing about her – even the basics – and half of what I did hadn't come from her at all.

**~.~.~**

"Alice," Bella called, slowing her pace to match mine. Hands shoved as deeply in my pockets as they'd go, I stared down at the rough pavement, watching our footsteps move in tandem across the cracks and pits. In my periphery, a pale hand slid between my body and my arm, latching around my elbow. It was an intimate gesture, especially when she drew up to my side as closely as our shoulders would allow. Even in the sink of despondency, I felt that, and even though I couldn't force myself to look up, I felt the spark of something warm inside my chest when she squeezed my bicep.

A few feet away from the restaurant's entry, Bella stopped, tugging me backward. Surprised and confused, my head lifted. Eyeing her sister, she smiled as if nothing were wrong, even though I could see the unease written across her forehead. I wondered if Alice knew that tell, too. "Al, can you go on in and find Rose? You remember her, right? Go ahead and get a table. We'll be there in just a second."

Alice frowned and her arms crossed her chest in what I took as disapproval, but instead of commenting, she merely clucked her tongue and shook her head as she stepped through the door.

Even in the dark and now alone, I still couldn't seem to find it in me to really look at her. I wasn't sure why this whole thing bothered me so much, but it _did_. In the car, I'd argued and argued with myself, but the only conclusion that I could come up with was that I didn't know because I didn't ask. And I should have. I felt… _inadequate_.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Bella asked quietly, stepping in front of me, chasing my retreating eyes.

I glanced over her head and out across the nearby water, nervously rummaging in my pockets for some kind of distraction. "Nothing."

With a huff, she reached up to straighten my shirt placket, fingering the buttons and smoothing away wrinkles what weren't there. "So, we're back to this?" Something sounded _off_ in her voice and it pulled at me just as surely if she'd tugged on my arm again.

My brow folded together into a grimace. This wasn't the time or the place for this kind of discussion. "It's not a big deal, okay. Just drop it."

"Edward?" Her head cocked to the side and through the cotton of my shirt, I felt the flats of her palms sliding over the lines of my chest. For a too-long moment, I stood speechless and still, held by the frustration in her expression.

"Drop it," I finally snapped, angry at my own embarrassment. My cheeks felt warm and my jaw ticked.

"I don't think so. What's wrong?" Bella asked again, this time louder, pushing me, and I knew she wasn't going to let it go. This was the side of her I knew well, the side that didn't take my shit, and at least in this moment, she was so very different from the fragile creature that had slept on my chest. "You were fine when we talked on the phone. I thought that you wa-"

"Why didn't you tell me it was your damned birthday?" I suddenly blurted, my mouth running faster than my brain. The second the words spilled, the warmth in my face bloomed and spiked, and my heart felt like it was slamming against my ribcage. Inwardly, I spat a long series of curses.

"What?"

Slowly, I turned and risked looking at her, balling my fists in my pockets. Frustration had given way to bewilderment. Her eyes were narrowed, her brows were arched high, and her head tilted opposite, as if she were trying to decipher code.

I sighed and lifted my face to the sky in exasperation, and more so, in sheer mortification. "I just… why didn't you say anything? I don't understand."

"It bothers you?" Tentatively, she pulled on my left hand, freeing it from my jeans, and guided it to the dip of her waist. "Why?"

Against better judgment, my fingers tensed, pulling her closer and shaping themselves to her curves in recollection of the way I'd held her before. Being this close to her only compounded my confusion. Touch and smell overwhelmed me and I could barely think. "I don't know," I muttered, fumbling over the words, not knowing how to even begin to articulate my irrational reaction. "It just… fuck, I don't know. I'm supposed to know that shit, right?"

Bella's lips turned up almost as if she were pleased, as she repeated her actions, this time pulling my on right hand and directing it to copy my left. "Why would you think that?" Her voice was soft and there was inexplicable affection hidden in her tone.

I swallowed when her arms circled me, bringing her against me. "I'm just supposed to. And I don't. There's a lot I don't know about you," I breathed, closing my eyes and drowning. "I don't know how to do this with you," I admitted, dropping my head to her shoulder in defeat. In the back of my mind, a small part of me realized that the more involved I was with Bella, the fuzzier and more muddled my emotions became. Around her, up turned down and right became left, and I questioned just how much upheaval I could take before it finally broke me.

Her hold tightened, as if to hold me up, and I felt the press of warm lips and warm breath on my cheek. "It was the thirteenth. And I didn't tell you because I hate birthdays. That's it."

"You should have told me. I would have gotten you something."

"Maybe that's why I didn't." Bella kissed me again and then again, and a completely different kind of heat began spreading underneath my skin, slowly driving away my insecurities.

"That makes no sense," I managed. But my chest was tight and the air was saturated with her. Unthinking, my body took over and I turned to capture her lips, dying just a little when I felt her mouth on mine. I couldn't think past the feel of her.

"When's yours?" she mumbled against my lips. When I didn't answer, her arms snaked up and around my neck and she pulled back, staying just close enough that I couldn't look away. My scalp tingled when her fingers combed through the back of my hair.

"When's my what?" I felt drunk, only this drunk made me feel everything instead of nothing.

"Your birthday," she laughed.

I smiled back, realizing just how ridiculous this conversation was. For the first time since she'd left my house, I felt light – _good_. "It doesn't matter," I hedged, wanting more than anything to just shut up and kiss her again. My stomach fluttered and my muscles tensed, recalling the way she molded against me. I wanted to feel that again so, so much.

"See?" She laughed again as she released her hold on my neck. Threading her fingers between mine, Bella sighed, "Let's go in, I guess? I'm betting they're wondering where we are."

Dragging my feet, I glared at the front glass of the restaurant, not really wanting to face Alice or anyone else for that matter, instead preferring to live in our too-brief bubble where nothing touched us. "June twentieth," I murmured, as I reluctantly wrapped my hand around the door handle.

Bella stopped under the charcoal awning and looked up at me in surprise. Even in the low, shadowy light of the entryway, her lips were pink and her face was flushed. "I knew you then."

"Just barely," I remembered aloud. "At the time I was being dick to you anyway."

Her smile wavered and I somehow knew that it wasn't due to my self-deprecation. She squeezed my hand before she answered. "What did you do on your birthday?"

Ducking my head to avoid her scrutiny, I opened the door and motioned for her to go in. "I don't know. Nothing really," I lied, ignoring the pang of memory as I followed her inside. I did know. Just as I'd done the year before and the year before that, I'd turned off my phone and drunk myself blind to escape. I remembered only because I woke up on the floor.

Instead of responding or pressing me for more, Bella reached up and gently smoothed back a stray lock of hair, as if she saw straight through my lie to the truth. Lightly, she asked, "So that was all?"

My eyes widened, not following, and I leaned against the closest wall. "All?"

"Was that all that bothered you?" Fingertips rested against my stomach and her expression was so open. Raking my hand through my mess of hair, I debated answering. Like before, however, my mouth was ahead of me. "Maybe… Not really."

"Alice?" she guessed.

I blinked and nodded automatically, not knowing how to respond and hoping that she understood why I couldn't forgive and forget so easily.

"Thank you."

"For?"

Bella grinned, and then her eyes darted down and up to mine again, revealing the smallest intimation that _my_ question had hit a nerve. So softly that I barely heard her over the sound of the milling crowd, she whispered, "For caring that much."

Something akin to elation grew and expanded inside of me, and all I could do was stare at her and hope that she understood. When I'd told her that she was the one bright spot in the last four years of my life, I'd meant it. For right now, standing in a room full of strangers, everything else melted away. In this one moment, I didn't care about her sister. I didn't care about her demons and whether or not they had really been exorcised. I didn't remember why I never saw my family and I didn't want to escape or hide or drown in a bottle. That glimmer of light – of _good_ – that I'd experienced out in the parking lot turned into more than a glimmer. Right now, for just this second, for the first time in ages, I felt that foreign emotion of being _happy_ and I thought that just maybe I would be able to handle this, that I could actually be who I was supposed to be. On a date. With Bella. Regardless of our dinner companions.

A loud guffaw cut through the haze of my revelation, and I immediately recognized its source. Being a Friday night, the place was packed with patrons, but my brother's height and broad shoulders made him an easy target to locate. _Happily_, I grinned back at Bella and pointed to the bar where I knew Emmett would be. As we weaved between the waiting masses, a flash of blonde told me that Rosalie was there, too, and as people parted, I saw that his arm was draped across her shoulders. They were laughing and smiling, chatting with someone I assumed to be Alice.

My palm found the small of Bella's back as we made our way to the bar. Across from Emmett, Alice's dark mop of hair was bobbing with her laughter, and like my brother, her focus was on someone else. A cinching knot suddenly formed in the pit of my stomach, marring my moment of bliss, even as I rationalized. Considering that Port Angeles was the only decent sized town with real restaurants within a reasonable drive from Forks, it wasn't that surprising that someone else we knew would be here.

When we turned the corner, however, for the second time in so many months, a pair of steel gray eyes fixed to me. The room seemed to still and quiet, as if everything had been put on pause.

Before I could even think, my moment was shattered and the words tumbled out of my mouth, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Chasing Cars_, by Snow Patrol


	28. Like I'm Close to Something Real

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for editing, chatting, fussing at Edward, and just in general making this better.

* * *

_**Like I'm Close to Something Real**_

* * *

_What the fuck are you doing here?_

For what felt like an eternity, my surprised growl of a question hung in the air. No one moved or spoke. No one even breathed. Frankly, I wasn't sure who was more surprised by my outburst – Emmett or Rose, Bella, Jasper, or _me_. The words just came out, heedless of those around me, a reactionary voice to my shock at seeing an all-too-visceral reminder of the past I so desperately needed to avoid.

It was as though everything – time, space, motion, even sound – ground to a halt. People vanished into a blurry sea of colors and shapes, and voices merged into a dull background roar. Vaguely, somewhere in the right side of my periphery, as if in slow motion, I saw Emmett flinch, and Rose's hand flew to cover her mouth. Beside me, I felt more than saw Bella stiffen, and then there was the press of a palm against my ribcage, as if she were silently trying to restrain me. But it was all muted and distorted, like viewing the world from beneath a foot of water. All I could really see was the stunned face of my once-friend.

Under the weight of my glare, Jasper's features crumpled. He stared at me like I'd sucker punched him, and I couldn't help but consider what _I_ looked like to those around me. Was I really glaring? Or was something else written in my features, I wondered. Despite the cool air blowing from the air handling system, the room suddenly felt hot, sweltering almost, and my skin flamed, dampening the back of my neck with a fine sheen of anxious sweat.

"Edward," he muttered, finally breaking the awkward silence. Nervously, in an all-too-familiar gesture, he ran a hand through his hair.

It was strange how my mind reacted to the scene and to his voice. I felt like I was being pulled in two, or three. In startling similarity to that afternoon back in July at his grandmother's antique shop, part of me, the volatile, angry part, irrationally wanted to sprint across the short distance between us and finish the fight we'd started so many years ago. Non-existent cold raindrops hit my skin, and I could hear the cracks of our fists connecting and echoing in that dimly lit parking lot. My knuckles burned and ached as though no time at all had passed and they were still split, bloody, and bruised. Deep down, I longed for that kind of catharsis, a physical outlet to escape the tension and pressure.

Before I could act, however, bright flashes of other years-old memories cut across my vision, replacing the violence and stilling my anxious fidgets. It was like some kind of internal chain reaction, one memory bleeding into another and then another, set off by nothing more than seeing those familiar gray eyes. The raindrops I felt became tears and the pounding fists turned into clinging, desperate ones.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, hoping to stem the barrage that I knew would come without fail. Like always, it was to no avail, and sounds and sights and smells assaulted me. But these memories weren't from the crash or the hospital. No, these were worse. There was a glimpse of an abandoned half-lit Christmas tree in my parents' new condo, and my mother was hunched over on the couch and crying into an album. My father's face was framed in the door, harsh and haggard in the low lamplight, and I could hear the disgust in his voice when he asked why I was there. Sluggishly, my mother lifted her head, but her eyes were vacant, and it was as though I wasn't there at all. As if it were yesterday, that blank expression cut through me and my shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his question when I turned on my heel to leave.

Bella's fingers dug deeper into my side, delving between my ribs. It was just enough pressure and contact to wrench me away from my downward path. With that same touch, however, yet another, possibly worse side of me took over. This side was the damaged, empty part of me who hid in dark rooms and drowned in tranquilizers to escape. This part of me was a fucking coward and it told me to spin around and run, to jump in the car, and to peel out of the parking lot as fast as I could before I did something stupid. Either that or shrivel and cower in a corner. It wanted nothing to do with Jasper or talking or pretending or any of that. This side craved the safety of solitude and the freedom to fall apart, and it chastised me for putting myself here in the first place. For a split second, illogically, I despised Bella for what she'd done to me, and, more so, that I'd allowed her to wriggle her way into my life.

I needed to leave. Now. Before I embarrassed Bella. I didn't care about myself, but embarrassing her, tonight, was intolerable. She didn't deserve that shit from me, never mind the excuse of my demons. Even lost as I was, I knew that.

Despite my intentions, my body, however, didn't seem to acknowledge better judgment and it refused to cooperate. Every single one of my muscles was tense, locked and aching, and my feet might as well have been planted in the floor.

"How are you?" Jasper hesitantly asked, drawing my focus. His eyes bounced from me to the floor and then back again, and his palms twisted together uncomfortably. At least I wasn't the only one who knew how fucked up this situation was.

"Fine," I managed, swallowing down a lump of unease. My lungs were so tight and my chest squeezed as though steel bands bound me. Every word seemed to steal the air I had, and all of which I was capable were stunted, one-word answers. "Same."

Jasper grimaced and nodded as if he understood the war waging in my head. Or maybe he simply remembered our failure of a conversation two months ago and the bite of the words I still meant.

_There is nothing I want to discuss with you._

When I said no more, he turned to face my brother and stuck out his hand. "Emmett, it was good to see you, man. It's been too long.

"Glad to meet you, too, Rose. Congratulations if I don't see you again before the baby is born."

Emmett smiled, but it was strained. I knew my brother well enough to know when he was faking it. While his lips were turned up, his eyes were sad, and they were trained to me, not to Jasper. "Thanks, Jazz. It really has been a while. Glad to see you… really. Maybe some other time."

"Wait!" a high soprano cut in, interrupting. Alice stepped forward, her hands on her hips. Her head tilted as if confused, as if she didn't recognize what was going on. "I thought you said you didn't have plans?"

Jasper's head swiveled and his gaze swept back and forth between Alice and me. "I know. I'm sorry about that, Alice. I didn't realize that… It's probably best that I go, though."

There was hesitance in the way he addressed her, and his palms continued to twist. "Really, I'm sorry. It was really… _nice_ meeting you… If you come back up to visit…"

Alice's expression fell and she mumbled another attempt. Admittedly, I didn't know Alice well, but I knew that look, and her voice was riddled with disappointment. Between Jasper's reluctance and her obvious distress, the pieces matched and merged, and goddamnit if it didn't make me want to laugh, as inappropriate as it was. Because of course – _of course_ – as if my life couldn't get any more complicated, my _date's_ sister would have a thing for my ex-best friend and the one person who made me sick just to see him. And _of course_, her interest could not go unrequited.

_Fucking perfect_, I groaned internally.

Seeing what I didn't know, Bella's grip tightened, and I felt her lift up on her toes and lean into me. Barely touching my skin, she ran her fingertips along the back of my neck and tenderly wiped the sweat away. A shudder rolled up my spine, and when she spoke, my eyes involuntarily closed as I felt her lips grazing my cheek. So softly only I could hear, she whispered, "Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal, okay? I'll take care of Alice."

Before she even finished, my throat bobbed in discomfort borne of both loathing and uselessness. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to always be appeasing me and _taking care_ of things. She wasn't supposed to walk on eggshells, waiting for me to explode or to fall apart. Not any night, but especially not tonight.

A potentially disastrous thought sprang and wiggled its way to the surface. Just considering it made my stomach surge, and hot, sour liquid churned and bubbled up my esophagus anticipating failure. But it wouldn't die, and somehow, when I opened my eyes and saw no hint of anger or blame in hers, that discomfort contorted and twisted in my chest, turning into something altogether different and new. Maybe it was determination, as grim as it was.

"No," I whispered back, steeling my resolve by quickly pressing my lips to hers. "You _won't_."

I coughed to hide the tremble of uncertainty in my voice. "So are we going to eat or what?" I blurted too loudly. Searching for one more point to ground me, I grabbed Bella's hand and motioned for her to cue the hostess.

"Jasper?" I asked, commanding myself to at least look in his direction and not to succumb to memory.

Jasper looked back at me with undisguised alarm and confusion. I didn't bother glancing over to Emmett because I knew he'd be wearing the same expression, except that his would be marred by secondhand fear, no doubt in recollection of the last time we'd attempted any kind of dinner. And God only knew that I couldn't handle a reminder of _that_ night. Not now, not when my wherewithal and hold on myself was tentative at best.

My jaw ached from the force of my gritting teeth, but I pushed the words out nonetheless. "You coming?" Jasper didn't answer, but his brow creased sharply and his lips parted in continued stunned surprise. I huffed in exaggeration and pulled Bella toward the waiting hostess, calling over my shoulder. "Well? Come on, damn it."

Two minutes later, we were six and were being seated at an oversized round table overlooking the water.

"Why are you doing this?" Bella murmured, resting her hand on top of my thigh. Whether or not it was her intent, the weight and the position of her palm on me was distracting. Thankfully, I needed the distraction, because every time I glanced across the table, it was a fight to remain in the present, let alone to maintain an expression of polite indifference. Like always, however, Bella somehow knew all of this and kept me there and away from remembered smells and sounds. When I saw her smile at something Rosalie said, I reminded myself yet again that I could do this for at least a few hours. I could be normal for her.

And maybe, just maybe, I could be normal for me, too.

"I told you I'm fine, okay," I answered quietly, hoping to hide my internal struggle from the rest of the table. My response came out more clipped and curt than I'd meant it to be, but Bella seemed unaware or uncaring. She simply smiled wider and distracted me even more by lightly drumming her fingertips an inch north of my knee.

For a long moment, somehow ignoring all else – especially the shaggy blond in black flirting and chatting with Alice – I simply sat there and stared at her and the hint of mischief playing at the corners of her mouth and lifting her cheeks. Slowly, the light drumming turned into languid figure-eights, and my whole lower half tensed and tightened in acknowledgment. When Bella looked at me, her eyes were wide and her cherry-stained lips were parted, and it was suddenly as though we were the only ones in the room. It was maddening how she could affect me so dramatically. The space between us was too wide and all I wanted was to close the gap and to do more of whatever we'd done in the parking lot. _And on my couch_. Despite all the stress and anxiety from just minutes before, there wasn't anything that I wanted more than her hands all over me… except for maybe mine on her.

If this was normal, I'd take it.

A nasally woman's voice from behind me startled me back into the present. "What can I get for you folks to drink?"

She might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water in my lap. With a silent curse, my head immediately dropped to the menu, and I began reading and re-reading the same lines over and over as I tried _not_ to hear the rest of her spiel. But my brain was hard-wired to her voice and it was grating, like nails on a chalkboard, demanding my attention. Like a goddamned junkie, my knee bobbed with impatience. "We've got a few beers on tap, half a dozen more by the bottle. And tonight, the special at the bar is an aged single-malt..."

Before the woman finished her litany, Rosalie shot her a look and interrupted loudly enough to drown everything else out, "Seltzer water for me. No ice. Emmett?"

"Diet Coke," Emmett quickly followed, not giving the waitress a chance to start over. For the time being, even though I knew better, I pretended that their interference was happenstance.

"Spring water for me."

"House chardonnay," Alice ordered, thankfully oblivious.

"Regular Coke," Bella answered slowly, drawing the syllables out. The pressure of her fingers increased, and I knew that she was watching me. Even buried and concentrating on the blurring words in front of me, I could feel her hesitation and expectation.

"And for you sir?" It was such an innocuous question, but for me it was as dangerous as a loaded gun.

Reluctantly, I lifted my head and looked past her to the dark mahogany bar. With a longing that sank into my bones, I stared at the glasses, cut-glass tumblers, and half-filled bottles behind them. Even worse than in the car, the clawing under my skin started again, and my mouth and throat instantly dried out. _Just one_, my mind tumbled out, needing and wanting the numbing burn of that oh-so-fragrant blend of sherry and smoke and aged oak and pungent grain. _One._ Just contemplating _one_ – nothing more than two little fingers – my heart sped in anticipation and my stomach clenched and fluttered.

_One…_

To my right, I heard Emmett roughly clear his throat and in that single sound, I just… _knew_. Inwardly, I sighed in simultaneous frustration, relief, and resignation.

_One_ was an impossibility for me. Staring at Jasper all night, pretending that I didn't care that he was there, one would inevitably turn into two and then to three, continuing until I couldn't see him or anyone else anymore. _Just like last time…_

"Coke. Just… Coke."

"Regular or diet?"

"I don't care. Whatever," I mumbled, turning back to my menu, still grappling with what I wanted and what I knew I _had_ to avoid.

There was an excruciating second of wary silence, and Bella's hand froze. If this had been any other night and if it had been anyone else beside me, my natural response would have been to snap from mortification, but instead of irritation or humiliation, inexplicably, the warmth of determination flickered and shot through my chest once more, and I couldn't resist leaning over to… _gloat_. It was utterly absurd to be proud over a goddamned drink order, or over sitting across the table from someone, but I was. In fact, I was fucking giddy.

"What?" I mouthed, rolling my eyes and raising my brows in mock disbelief. Shaking her head, Bella just smiled – that radiant, full-face smile that I swore was somehow reserved for me. It made me feel… happy and a little more _normal_. Incapable of hiding my responding grin, I reached over to thumb the soft spot of skin underneath her ear, marveling at just how soft her skin really was. Pointedly looking down at her hand on my thigh, my grin transformed into a lip-twitching smirk, and I murmured into the crook of her neck, "Why'd you stop that? Or are you telling me that it's my turn now?"

**~.~.~**

An hour, three Cokes, and nine ounces of beef later, all my excuses to ignore him were spent. Even with Bella beside me consuming my focus, I'd run out of distractions as well as petty conversation about the food and the weather and other 'safe' topics. Apparently, from the stolen, sideways glances and aimless clinking of silverware, so had everyone else, and once again, I found myself wandering through a maze of discomfort and awkward silence. While likely just a function of time and exposure, at least my mind took pity on me and remained in the present.

"So, you guys know each other?" Alice asked abruptly. Casually, as if no agenda hid inside her query, she propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in an upturned palm. The accusation in her tone, however, belied her laid-back bearing, and the distrust that had waned during dinner – likely nothing more than an effect of her diverted attention – was back. I could see the wheels turning and her eyes flashed with something less than friendly. I wondered if she'd finally processed the shocked anger in my initial greeting and the subsequent painful interaction.

Naturally, like an idiot, all I could do was swallow and shift in my chair, unsure how to answer. A sudden roll of my stomach made me regret every single bite I'd eaten.

Unlike her sister and her drunken loose-lipped chattering, Bella had kept _my_ secrets – of that I was certain. Alice had no background knowledge of me, of Jasper, or of Maria, and as such she had no issue or compunction in testing my limits. While I certainly didn't want to rehash Jasper's and my history – God only knew what she'd think if I did – considering the other people at the table, outright lying wasn't really an option. And I certainly couldn't risk blowing up at her; Bella could forgive my behavior toward my family, but unleashing on hers was surely a different matter altogether. Buying time, I motioned the waitress over for a refill.

"Yeah-" I started, struggling with just how much truth to tell, and more so, how much I could speak without sinking or shattering. "It's complica-"

"We went to school together," Jasper interjected, nonchalantly slinging his arm across the back of her chair. Surprised, I looked across the table and found him staring at me and tentatively smiling.

Alice flushed when he tickled the back of her neck, and at least a portion of the accusation in her voice morphed into genuine interest. "Really? How long has it been since…"

"A while," he answered, not looking away from me. "We met when Edward and Emmett moved to Forks back in high school. We all played ball together, and then Edward and I were at Dartmouth together. Roommates actually."

To my left, Emmett said nothing, neither refuting nor adding. Instead, he busied himself by picking at the last bites of steak left on Rosalie's plate. Alice eyed us all, still pleased by Jasper's flirting but undoubtedly realizing there was more to our history than either of us was planning to admit.

"You were surprised to see…"

"I moved down to Portland a few years ago for a job," he continued. "And, well, I'm back in Port Angeles now. Helping my grandma out a little at her store. Trying to set her up online and all that." In true Jasper fashion, he winked at Alice, and the effect on her demeanor was instantaneous. She might as well have melted into a puddle on the floor.

Bella mimicked Alice's posture, leaning forward on her elbows. "Online? Really? I don't suppose you've run across any pieces that match my wardrobe?"

And like that, I was saved as the table erupted into what seemed like a dozen different conversations, all diverging into different directions. As if in fast forward, the minutes merged together into an indistinguishable blur, and for the next half an hour or so, I drifted in and out of conversations, feeling more like I was hovering somewhere above than actually sitting there _participating_.

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

"You're coming back soon, right?"

"Maybe around Christmas? If that's okay with Bella." Hearing 'shy' from Alice was something new, and were it not for the undying stress of the present situation, I'd have found it hilarious.

"Of course it is, Ali. We'll put up a huge tree in the living room and deck it out with as many lights as the circuits can handle. I'm betting Edward knows where we can find a fresh tree, too. Maybe we could even cut it down or something. You know, do the whole experience." Bella's fingers wound through mine, settling in my lap.

Answering some question I missed, Rosalie answered quietly, "We're having a small ceremony next month. We thought about a bigger event, but it's… just not a good time. And it's not like I could find a dress that would fit over this stomach anyway."

"Baby, you would look good in anything."

Playfully, Rosalie smacked Emmett's shoulder, laughing. "Shut up, Emmett. I'm huge and you know it. My ass takes up two lanes. You? You just like my bra size, you big oaf."

"You're beautiful," Emmett cooed, bringing the back of her hand to his lips. "And yes, for the record, the bra size is… impressive. So sue me for appreciating."

"You ass!" she laughed, smacking him again. But her ire was feigned and poorly done at that. Her eyes twinkled and there was nothing but affection in her expression. I realized that my brother was a very lucky man.

"Will you come to the ceremony, Bella? With Edward?"

So mired in these last few weeks, I'd _almost_ forgotten their wedding. Frankly, all that I really remembered was that it was in October sometime. But then, I argued, my lack of knowledge wasn't unexpected since wedding planning wasn't exactly something in which my family would have involved me, regardless of how small or intimate the ceremony. I'd be expected to attend – there was no doubt of that – despite better reasoning and past indicators. Forgoing my only brother's wedding would be unforgivable, more so than my father's birthday.

Even as I listened to their conversation, some part of me blanched and turned inward, already contemplating and dreading the drama that would likely unfold. My breathing turned shallow and I struggled not to drop my head in my hands or show some other outward sign. No matter what, no matter if I managed to keep my mouth shut, there _would_ be drama; my father would find some way to remind me of yet another failure of mine. Breaking Mike's nose would be an easy target, but there were more than enough others from which to choose. We would do our little dance. He'd make some off the cuff comment or dig. Incapable of resisting, I'd respond in my typical asshole fashion, and then everything would just escalate from there.

But I wasn't used to this – to being thrown back into my old life so often. After so many years of being alone, holed up in my house and in my head, both being ostracized and ostracizing myself, all the recent and upcoming contact was just baffling, and if I were being honest with myself, maybe just a little terrifying. I didn't know how to do this; I wasn't equipped.

"I…Well, I wouldn't want to imp-" Bella started.

Like always, my mouth ran off without my head, not waiting and certainly not thinking. Hearing her hesitation made me stupid. "Obviously she's coming with me," I interrupted. Three pairs of eyes turned to me, leaving me self-conscious and cagey. Squeezing her hand, more softly, I asked – or perhaps more accurately, pleaded – "Right?"

"I'd love to," was all she said, and in response, all the air in my lungs expelled in loud rush.

Strangely, a faint pink colored her cheeks. Like her hand on my thigh, it was distracting, and it made me feel… _better_, like maybe I wasn't the only one fumbling around in the dark. As fucked up as it was, it filled me with an odd since of power. Right or wrong, smart or stupid, she _liked_ me. She wanted to be near me; she wanted _me_. I didn't understand why or how, but that dusting of color told me more than her words. It was damned near addicting, and I wanted to see it all the time.

"So you live in San Francisco now?" I heard in the background.

"Yeah, I'm a buyer for a line of boutiques."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't know… it's okay? It's… Well, I didn't think I'd ever say this, but I like the pace of life up here. It's… nice," Alice answered tentatively, as if she were testing the words as she spoke them.

"There's always Seattle, you know," Jasper teased, familiarly ruffling her hair. I ventured that if it'd been anyone else at the table, Bella included, laughter would have not been her response.

"One visit at a time!"

The conversation continued, weaving in and out of topics, most of which gave me no pause. As mortifying as it was, it was almost as if they – all but Alice – knew where my boundaries were and carefully steered around them. They came close, grazing the perimeter, but they always pulled back before it became too much. But when Rosalie asked about our old football days, my eyes slid shut, anticipating too much history and too many details, and involuntarily, I found the table edge and held on for dear life.

Once again, Jasper jumped in, grinning and animatedly motioning with his hands. "You should have seen Emmett, Rose. He was a freaking monster on the field. No one could make it past him. No one. Seriously. Which was really damned good for me 'cause I was a scrawny ass quarterback."

Emmett guffawed and slapped the table. "Monster? Come on! I wasn't that bad. Except that time I broke that Quileute kid's leg. Purely an accident."

"Bullshit!" Jasper shot back, snorting. "You didn't like the way he looked at Kate."

"Kate?" Rosalie's eyebrows arched, but her lips quivered, just resisting a smile.

"Man, you are going to get me a night on the couch if you don't stop."

"What position did Edward play?" Bella asked, earning her an appreciative sigh from my brother.

"Wide receiver usually," I muttered, my grip on the table edge slowly easing. "Sometimes Jasper and I swapped."

"You were so fast," Jasper added. Turning to Bella, he went on, "He could outrun anyone. I bet he's still got the county record."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. That's how little old Forks won State 1A that year - Emmett's brick wall and Edward's speed."

"Yeah, yeah. He was fast. But catching was a different story, though," Emmett taunted, breaking in. "If it was cold, the kid couldn't catch a damned thing."

"Shut it, Em," I laughed, ignoring the crimson heat climbing my neck. "That was one night. And you were the one who broke my thumb in practice. It's not like you can talk either. How many touchdowns did you ever get?"

"Whatever. I was too busy protecting you skinny boys from getting smooshed."

Alice giggled and swigged the last of her chardonnay. "_Smooshed?_ Is that an official sports term?"

In some unconscious, accidental effort borne of years ago camaraderie, we scoffed and intoned in unison, "Of course it is."

**~.~.~**

"Thanks, Edward," Jasper said, his voice thick from some emotion I couldn't identify. Slowly, as if debating internally, he extended his hand, holding it out in both goodbye and truce.

As in slow motion, my whole body tensed and nausea threatened. I could feel it lapping like ocean waves at my feet, licking my ankles and washing away the earth beneath me. The pull was there, that current that wanted to jerk me down and take me out to sea. But I remained standing.

Admittedly, something had shifted between dinner and talking. At the very least, the lingering violence and need for a physical outlet was spent. I was so tired of that – of hanging on and being so goddamned angry at him all of the time. If anything, I was just numb and maybe a little nostalgic for a time long since past. In those few minutes in which I'd allowed myself to relax, tonight I'd relived what it felt like to have a friend who wasn't there because of blood relation. It was a not-so-subtle reminder of what I didn't have now, but for the exception of the brunette who, for some reason, looked beyond my mass of deficiencies.

It all felt so heavy and dragging, and more than anything, I just wanted to go home and call tonight what it was – a minor success. But being the masochist I was, I warred and argued one last time and told myself that I could do this, that I could handle one more thing for the face of civility and normalcy. I'd made it this far, after all. Unable to look at him directly, I stared at an empty spot on the wall just over his right shoulder. With a swallow, my fingers flexed and I shook my once best friend's hand, a first in close to five years now.

As he withdrew, thankfully not pressing me with apologies as he had back in July, I found myself gripping his hand and pulling him back. Before I realized what I was even saying, the words came out. "Hey, Jasper?"

"Yeah?" He sounded about as exhausted as I felt.

"How… are you?"

He smiled, but unlike those smiles from dinner, this one was something between bittersweet and sad. "I'm alright."

"Do…do you ever think about her?" I fumbled, cringing over what I couldn't seem to contain. The waves crested, crashing into my knees.

His head swept to the left and he appeared to be studying the unlit fireplace in the far corner of the main dining area. When he turned back to face me, his eyes were glassy, shining ever so slightly in the dim light, and his jaw tightened and rolled. Hoarsely, he replied, "Of course, I do. Not a day goes by when I don't."

"How—"

"I've accepted it. I don't miss her any less…" he answered, knowing what I was asking better than I did. There was a slight waver in his voice, and he had to clear his throat twice. "I just realized that she wouldn't have wanted me… or _you_… not to move on."

Jasper paused, allowing the words to sink in, or maybe waiting for me to blow up.

"It was an accident, Edward. A horrible accident that God only knows I wish I could change… But I can't. And you can't. So… we just do what we can to be happy. Mar- she wouldn't want anything less from us."

"Yeah…" I mumbled, only half-hearing.

"Look, I know I said this before… I never thou-"

The room was suddenly too small; it was as though the walls were closing in and the ceiling was collapsing above me. Shockwaves of pain rippled through my chest and my lungs screamed for oxygen in too-thin air. Heat flooded my veins and my skin crawled and prickled, telling me that the limit of what I was capable was fast approaching.

"Yeah," I managed through clenched teeth. All the while, my eyes frantically scanned for Bella's return from the ladies room. When she emerged and met my stare, she nodded as if she'd heard everything and understood my need for escape. "Look, I'm—I've got to go."

"Edward? You ready?" Bella called from across the room.

Jasper smiled that same bittersweet smile. "Don't worry about it. I get it. I do. Let me know if I can do anything. I'm… _sorry_, Edward. I know you don't believe me or get it. But I am. I regret the things I said more than you will ever know. I was wrong."

"I know," I whispered, just containing the chattering of my teeth. "I… can't. Not now."

"Take care, okay? Maybe I'll catch you later." He ducked his head and waved at Bella as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn't see that I was teetering on the precipice.

Something urged me to hold on to his hand and to listen to what he was trying to tell me, but everything – Alice, dinner, Jasper, the fucking bottles of scotch behind the bar – was too overwhelming. Self-preservation kicked in. With what little I had left, I forced a smile in return and raced toward the only solace I knew, calling over my shoulder, "Yeah, maybe. You, too."

**.**

**.**

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Somewhere I Belong, _by Linkin Park


	29. I Will Only Complicate You

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

_**I Will Only Complicate You**_

* * *

All around me hot, gray mist eddied and swirled, licking up the foggy glass walls and tumbling over the tops. The vapor was almost alive in the way it moved, curling and bending, expanding and drifting as if it had a mind and direction of its own. It poured out of my small space, filling the entire room and making everything smoky and indistinct. Beyond, against the far wall, the row of lights above the vanity was nothing more than a fuzzy blur, bathing the room in soft yellow. When I closed my eyes and listened, I could just make out the whir of the ineffective vent fan over the hard, echoing rap of water against glass and marble tile.

Steam rose off my now red skin, but I didn't move, instead purposefully planting myself beneath the relentless, beating rain, trying in vain to relax and to loosen my muscles and nerves. Despite the ticking minutes, however, my breathing remained ragged, even as I sucked in the scalding air and felt the heat spread through my lungs and chest. Slowly opening my eyes, forcing some semblance of calm, I counted to ten and stared at streaking droplets, watching the way their paths meandered and merged as they traveled down the glass, creating a spider web of clear trails that cut through opaque gray.

I couldn't do this. I _shouldn't_. But fuck, I wanted to.

Ten days had passed since I'd somehow conquered myself, however briefly, and managed to not destroy Bella's birthday dinner. Granted, by the time I finally made it home that night, I was nothing more than a catatonic mess inside, too numb and too exhausted to even form a coherent sentence. Like always, Bella seemed to know exactly what was going on, even when I did not; I could tell it from the way she gripped my hand a little too tightly and from the unnatural ring in her voice as she distracted Alice the entire trip back to Forks. Unlike any other, she understood the turmoil that I couldn't seem to ever escape, and more than likely, while she said nothing in front of her sister, she knew that I wasn't really capable of fully dealing with the night's events on my own.

But I didn't want her to have to deal with my shit. And I'd had my fill of people and talking and pretending and trying to be normal, so when the car pulled into her driveway, before I had a chance to see the concern, or worse, the pity, in her eyes, I waved her off and said good night as if nothing were wrong. That way I could fall apart alone, the way I preferred, the way I needed.

The only thing I remembered after stepping through my front door was stumbling toward my kitchen in a frantic, blind search for temporary salvation to my reeling, quaking psyche. Later, I woke up on the bathroom floor, like usual, reeking of alcohol and sweat.

Strangely, however, when I did open my eyes, even though my head throbbed in protest, my spine ached, and my guts felt empty and nauseated, I somehow felt… _lighter, _even amidst the ever-present self-disgust at my own weakness and idiocy. That much I was used to – that _was_ my normal – but with dawn came some measure of acceptance, and maybe even a little pride. I wasn't so lost that I was incapable of seeing it, that I couldn't claim a victory, however small and flawed. Yes, I'd given in and yes, I was on my back on a cold tile floor like so many nights before, but for the first time in years, I'd held it together, at least in public. I hadn't flown off the handle, I hadn't gotten wasted in front of her, never mind how desperately I'd craved the release, and I hadn't fallen into the tangles of memory.

Days later, part of me was _still_ flying a little high, from that and from the days afterward. Because the next day gave me yet one more reason to smile. Sure to her word and to my not-so-secret relief, Alice left, and once again, I had Bella all to myself, if she still wanted me.

I wasn't stupid. I knew how ridiculous it was that I'd grown so accustomed to our schedule, how I'd come to depend upon it for whatever semblance of happiness I occasionally felt. It was embarrassing and dangerous in what it could - no, likely _would_ – do to me later, but for now, I didn't care and I was selfish and I wanted more than just night after night of painting from her. Better sense no longer mattered. So from my upstairs perch, still hung over and like a goddamned nervous teenager, I stared out the window and counted the minutes from the time that yellow car sped away to the time the phone rang.

When I showed up on her doorstep at five before ten, my heart clapped against my ribcage and my hands dug deep into my pockets to hide their fidgeting. Standing there, wondering and waiting, I wasn't sure what I expected – maybe nothing, maybe the Inquisition. For some reason, the idea of admitting my failure, were she to ask, left my mouth sour and my throat dry, and I dreaded the awkwardness that would surely ensue if she did. More so, after two weeks and so little one-on-one time, I wasn't entirely sure where we stood, what she wanted, or what the fuck was supposed to come next.

All my fears were for naught, however, for as soon as the door swung wide, it was as though no time at all had passed and nothing had changed. The questions never came. Dressed in her usual ragged blue pullover and faded jeans, instead of launching into a barrage of queries and accusations, Bella simply grinned _my_ grin, and my whole being swelled. And then before I knew what was happening or could even walk through the door, she shoved a paintbrush under my nose.

"Are you serious?" I muttered, staring at her in disbelief.

"What?" she laughed. "Did you think I'd give you a break?"

Aimlessly twirling the white-speckled handle, I noted the flair of the well-used bristles. It was unnerving how naturally it fit in my hand, how feeling the smoothness of the curved wood settled my frayed nerves. It brought back the calmness and security of our schedule – that assurance and promise of time with her. Rather than sounding like an idiot and voicing my girlish thoughts, however, I shook my head and asked, "You want to paint? Tonight?"

"Why not?" Her voice was high and heavy on sarcasm, teasing me in words and in tone, and her eyes were glittering in amusement. In the dim yellow of the porch light, looking up at me and full of mischief, she looked so young.

Barely resisting a responding smile, I shrugged nonchalantly, motioning at the now-empty space of gravel in her driveway. "I don't know. Alice left like six hours ago, right?"

"And?" Bella countered, arching both brows as though I were the one who was crazy.

"You don't want to… fuck, I don't know… relax or some shit?"

Bella reached up and snatched the paintbrush from between my fingers. She shook it at me and then playfully slapped me on the chest with it as she explained, "Painting _is_ relaxing, Edward. I'd have thought that you would have understood that by now."

In my periphery, I saw a shadow peeking from beneath the hem of her shirtsleeve. It was slight, just a hint of something there – a _reminder._ As if she knew my mind, something flashed across her face, but I was too slow and too dumb to recognize it. Before I thought, I spoke, "What are you stressed about?" The emphasis was all wrong; it was too serious, too probing.

In some kind of twisted logic and fuckall for timing, I suddenly wanted Bella to tell me the rest of her story about James and the baby and why she had hurt herself – why she had tried to end her life. My stomach twisted, recoiling from the very notion. I wanted her to tell me that she was better and that there was no risk of her ever trying that again, because every time my mind drifted _there_, I couldn't breathe and my head throbbed with misery. The idea of Bella – _my Bella_ – no longer breathing was… incomprehensible. In so many ways, it was worse than the pain I knew already.

Beyond that, selfishly – because I _was_ that – I wanted her to justify why I was allowed to have her in my life and to tell me that I wasn't drowning her. I wanted to know that maybe in some small way, I could be good enough for her. But I needed Bella to tell me all of this because there was no way in hell that I had the wherewithal to ask her myself, and the more time that passed, the less inclined I was to say anything even close to the truth. I wasn't certain how she'd respond if I told her that her sister had betrayed her confidence and that I was too self-interested and weak to admit it. I imagined that she'd be more angry about the latter than anything. Were our situations reversed, I knew that my response would be pitifully predictable. _I'd be furious_, I thought.

Quietly, she motioned for me to come inside, her expression unreadable. Without speaking, I ducked my head and followed her in, both hoping and fearing what she'd read in my face. When the door clicked behind me, she turned and laid the brush on the side table in the hall.

Stunning me – _flooring me_ – her head cocked to the side and her lips turned up into an impish smile that seemed to banish all else. Unable to look away, confused but damned near mesmerized, I started when I felt the light whisper of a finger running down my chest and stomach, only to hook around one of my belt loops. In that single action and point of contact, my breath stuttered and my previous worries and wishes flew out the window.

"Well… for starters," she answered. "I just got my house back after two solid weeks of entertaining. Then, I have to go to work on Monday, where I have to read and grade forty essays on the feminine ideal in Victorian literature, half of which will likely fail, by the way."

Bella tugged me forward, surprising me yet again, this time from both her suddenness and her force. Swallowing, I looked down, trying but not really wanting to suppress the flood of heat traveling south. Dark, liquid eyes stared up at me as if she wanted to climb me, and when she licked her lips, mine involuntarily copied.

"And…" she went on, "I've still got three rooms that are the _ugliest_ shade of apartment beige I've ever seen. I think my landlord might be colorblind."

Like that, whatever spell she was weaving broke and my lips pursed and twitched, trying to contain a laugh.

Bella wanted to _play_. This was nothing new; my splatter-painted shirts bore evidence of that. Yet at the same time, this was entirely new and something else I really didn't know how to do. God only knew I wanted to, however.

One brow arched, I stepped into her, closing the space between us such that her neck craned and I could feel the exquisite brush of her chest against mine. "Colorblind? You think?"

Still holding on to my jeans, she backed up a step. Her smile morphed into a smirk and her eyes literally sparkled. "Yes," she answered, drawing out the 's'. "I do. It's atrocious really. _Nauseating_."

"You really shouldn't have said that," I warned.

With a laugh, Bella spun on her heel and raced back into house toward the kitchen. Calling over her shoulder, I could just make out her taunt, "I'm not afraid of you!"

I was no fool and I took my cue, streaking into the kitchen behind her. Two laps around the breakfast table and thirty seconds of feints and dodges later, I stared down at a still smirking, but now slightly breathless, Bella, who I had pinned against the counter, one arm on either side.

"What were you saying?" I growled.

"They weren't lying," she huffed, even as her thumbs traced my sides.

"What?"

"You _are_ fast."

I shrugged and laughed, reveling in the weightlessness of it all. Leaning down, grazing the flushed skin of her cheek with my lips, I whispered in her ear, "Maybe. But I don't think you were trying very hard to get away. Either that or you are really, _really_ slow."

There was a catch in her breathing and her fingers dug in, clutching now. "And that's a problem?" she whispered back.

"Not really. I would have caught you anyway." Her body was so close to mine that it was impossible for me to concentrate on anything else.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A pair of hands slid underneath my shirt, flattening against my abdomen, and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head. All taunting gone, Bella licked her lips again and murmured, "So are you ever going to kiss me or am I going to ha-"

The kitchen could very well have been burning to the ground and I wouldn't have known it. Like every time my mouth was on her, my mind shut down in a fog of lust and want, all mingled with something else. There was _nothing_ but her. For as far as I could see, dark eyes opened and closed, filled with and mirroring the same wonder-lust that bubbled inside me. There was nothing but lips and hands and warmth, and my lungs were filled with some unnamable perfume only ascribed to her.

I grabbed her face, unconsciously pressing my body tighter against hers, despising everything that separated us. It was like I couldn't breathe unless I was breathing the same air she breathed. I wanted more; I wanted to absorb her, to crawl into her space and never leave.

Her mouth opened and her tongue slid against mine, languidly licking and coaxing. At some point, my shirt rolled up my chest, stopping its journey only because my arms were still in my sleeves, and then there were fingers pawing _everywhere_, sending skittering shockwaves underneath my skin. They were in my hair and on my neck, and then they were skimming down to the waistband of my jeans and threading through the hair below my navel. Bella, or maybe I, moaned a soft, breathless moan, and I almost came unglued.

Our kisses grew more frantic, and without permission, my hands dropped to her small waist, sneaking beneath the hemline to touch the soft skin of her stomach. As they climbed upward, creeping beneath the wire of her bra to palm her breasts, her skin pebbled, and there were more breathless sounds filling my ears, making me as drunk as anything I'd ever consumed. Vaguely, through the haze of groping hands and moving lips, I was aware that flush against her, she could feel everything that she was doing to me, but when her hips shifted, searching for friction, I couldn't find it in me to care.

It was heaven and it was hell all at once – heaven in that I couldn't imagine ever wanting to stop and hell in that I longed for more than I could stand to articulate.

A half a dozen other nights, all similar and stopping somehow too short _and_ too long – inevitably when my conscience finally kicked in – led me here. To now, to standing alone and wanting, fighting something that I couldn't decide was right or wrong.

Steam rose and swirled, hot in my mouth and in my lungs. The water was scalding and beating against my back, but its rhythm and temperature helped to take my mind off both reality and the less than gentlemanly dreams it elicited. Since we'd resumed our routine, this time with a lot less painting, every night I spent at her house, I went to bed smelling like her and for the last three mornings in a row, I'd woken up like this, wanting – no, _needing_ – some kind of relief.

And cold showers didn't do shit.

_Goddamnit, Edward_, I berated myself. _What? Can you not fucking get off now?_

I was angry with myself, angry and timid and feeling utterly ridiculous.

_How long has it been?_ I couldn't help but wonder. Over the years, I'd lost track of time, but quick math told me more than four years had passed since I'd been with anyone. Not since Tanya, and what little we had together had been obliterated the moment I'd wrapped my car around that tree. I didn't even know where she was or what became of her, and if I were honest, I didn't care at all. It'd never been serious with her, nothing remotely close to what I felt now – what I wanted now.

_How long since I've even been interested? _I could barely remember those times. Before Bella, months, at least, had passed since I'd felt an inkling of desire. And even then, as sporadically as the times had been, seeking that relief had been perfunctory and without pleasure, nothing more than a quick physical release to nameless images. I just hadn't cared. I wasn't interested in feeling anything remotely close to that kind of bliss.

I was now. _Fuck_, I was interested, even as warning pangs of impending remorse shot through my middle. A week and a half's worth of flirting and touching and brief flashes of skin rendered that bitter voice momentarily mute.

I closed my eyes and pressed a flattened palm against the nearest shower wall. The marble was cool beneath my splayed fingers, a sharp contrast to the scorching heat of the water hitting my back, a sharp contrast to the heat building inside that stole the breath from my lungs.

Hesitantly – resigned – I gripped myself, sucking in air the moment my fingers tightened. Behind closed lids, a flood of disjointed, incomplete images, some real and some borne from my mind's creation, assaulted me. I could see her, I could hear her, and I damned sure could _feel_ her.

_Bella straddling my lap, her slight, delicious weight settled on top of me… Nails scraping up and down, teasing, biting into my skin… _

_Her mouth on my neck, wet and hot and sucking, licking the line of my jaw… Her fist in my hair, impatient and pulling my head back… _

"_Touch me," she whispers against my skin and then strips her shirt over her head… _

_And I'm touching her, sliding my hands all over her… Tracing her collarbones, my thumbs following the delicate lines to her throat… trailing down the valley between her breasts…_

_When she arches into me, I'm scrambling and reaching around to unclasp her bra…_

_I sigh and feel her breasts fill my hands, rising and falling with her ragged breaths… Her nipples, pink against pale cream, so pert and so hard between my fingers… I want to suck on them… I want her to moan my name when she comes… God, I want to hear her… _

"God," I panted, fisting myself harder, my balls already tightening.

_She's grinding herself against me… and I'm aching to be inside her, to feel the heat and to feel her body hugging and constricting around mine… I want to fuck… _

"No. No, not fuck," I grunted, hating the way it sounded coupled with her name and face. Guilt surged, even as my head lolled back and my hand sped its motions.

_She's grinding herself against me… over and over… I'm tonguing her nipples, taking turns, sucking them into my mouth, tugging and rolling… teasing them with my teeth, making them harder still… _

_I'm running my hands down her ribs, tickling and following each one, traveling the subtle ridges and dips… Her skin is so soft and she urges me lower to the swells of her hips… We're kissing, kissing like we kissed last night… hard and desperate, needy and sloppy… I'm so lost in feeling… So lost…_

_She lifts up her knees and I slowly slide her waistband down until her pants are around her knees and then they're gone… She copies me, staring at me in a way that makes me crazy, and she smiles my smile as she tugs my jeans and boxers off… _

_And there's nothing but thin lace separating us… and she's on top of me again… and she's so fucking hot that I can feel her damp heat on my cock… _

"_Please, Edward," Bella moans, wrapping her hand around me. I want to touch her, to be inside before I die, but she wants to touch me, too. And I know exactly what she wants, and it makes me feel powerful, invincible… _

_She's running a finger around my head and I can't stop myself from jerking upward… _

_Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she's stroking me, squeezing and twisting… _

"_More," I beg, as I touch her through lace…_

_She mewls and the sound goes straight down my abdomen… Squirming against my hand, her motions speed and her fist tightens and her mouth is doing sinful things to mine… I can smell her, sweet and light and all girl…It's everywhere, and I greedily breathe her in… I want to devour her…_

_And I can't think beyond the moment… I'm so close… So fucking close… _

_All I can do is feel and beg and…_

"That's it…Oh, Christ," I groaned, my voice somewhere high above me, echoing inside the shower walls. My hand spasmed and smacked against marble, as my eyes clenched shut and my world exploded in a single, perfect moment of color and sound and sensation.

For a moment, half-delirious, I stood there under the hot rain, listening to the river of rushing blood between my ears, feeling nothing but the blank relief and tiredness that I hadn't in so long. My body was limp and spent, my spine gelatinous and weak. Exhausted, I swayed until my back hit the wall. The once cool tile now felt cold compared to the hot spray, and like a bucket of ice water, it brought me back to the present and reminded me that my fantasy wasn't real. That none of it was real and that I'd just _masturbated_ to images of _Bella_. My Bella. I'd jacked off like a goddamned seventeen-year-old prick to _Bella._ This had to be wrong somehow.

Those pangs that I'd ignored came back one hundred fold, tearing and twisting my guts. Sighing, I looked up, staring into the gray fog, unsure and confused. Streams washed over my face, plastering my hair to my forehead, dripping down and following my scowl lines and wrinkles. The water stung my eyes and seeped into my mouth, pouring and pooling onto my tongue. Like a drowning man, I swallowed it down, feeling the punishing heat burn me from the inside. My throat was so thick, like I couldn't breathe, like my airways were closing up to suffocate me. Tears welled, and I hated them because I didn't want to feel this – whatever it was. I was crumbling inside; everything in me was imploding and contracting.

"You dumb fuck," I spat, as shame crested and I folded to the floor.

_**.**_

_**.**_

* * *

**A/n:** Just for clarity, we're now ten days after last chapter's dinner, so for any keeping score, that makes it Monday, Sept. 27.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Sober, _by Tool


	30. The Currents Will Shift

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen, for pre-reading and for answering all my questions. And thank you, Scooterstale, as always, for editing my words and for helping me find Edward's voice again.

* * *

_**The Currents Will Shift**_

* * *

It took me almost an hour to get up enough nerve to call her. An hour of staring at seven little black digits. Sixty minutes of debating and rationalizing and wondering why this was all so goddamned hard.

It shouldn't have been. It was a telephone call and a simple question, a yes or a no.

Asking your damned _girlfriend _out on a date wasn't supposed to be difficult or an event. It was supposed to be normal and _simple_.

Nothing was ever really that simple.

Maybe my hesitation was due to all of this being new to me. God only knew that I was out of practice, and nothing came easily. Instead, everything was awkward, and I was unsure of what was okay and what was not – of what was expected of me. I didn't know how to play my role.

Perhaps I vacillated because asking anyone for help made my stomach boil, even when that anyone was Bella and that help involved little things that didn't really matter. Or maybe it was because I knew that a yes would change today's schedule, and that was something that made my heart speed even as part of me smiled in anticipation.

Nervously, my thumb hovered over the send button, waiting for my brain to finally admit the truth to myself – that it wasn't any of those maybes. Not really. The truth of the matter was that probably – no, _definitely_ – my fluttering nerves had everything to do with the fact that after Monday's psychological clusterfuck of a shower, I hadn't been able to look at Bella without wanting to simultaneously put my mouth on her and punch myself.

Getting off to a fantasy involving a beautiful woman was normal. I knew that. With every rational cell in my body, I did. Unfortunately, however, my rational cells were few and far between. Because it _did_ bother me, even though I _knew_ I'd do it again. _Irrationally_, masturbating to images of Bella made me feel cheap and like a prick, like I was somehow using her even if it wasn't real and she didn't know about it. Even if every sign she gave me said that she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. The way she melted into me, the way she smiled when her lips were on mine – everything said that _this_ – whatever this was between us – was not one-sided.

But like always, my convoluted, fucked up mental process couldn't seem to fully accept that. Instead, every time – _every single time_ – I felt just a little bit of slack on that leash, just a moment when everything felt _good_ and maybe _right_, my brain inevitably kicked in and jerked me back and told me that I wasn't allowed this, that I didn't deserve it, and that I'd end up hurting her. The more I _felt _and wanted and strived, the more I realized just how far away I was, how fractured I was. And I had no idea how to fix myself – if I was fixable at all.

Right now, as I drummed my fingers against granite, it was like the previous weeks hadn't even occurred – her birthday, our escalating groping and making out, all of it.

Of course, Bella wasn't stupid either. From the way she eyed me askance as we painted each night, a look complete with contemplative pursed lips and lifted brows, she knew that my head was churning. She _always_ knew. Over the last few days, however, she just chose to not mention it. I didn't know what that meant.

After four rings and that many curses, I breathed a sigh of both relief and anxiety when I heard the telltale click of a receiver and then a second of loud shuffling, punctuated by an irritated huff. Had I not been so wound up, I'd have laughed.

"Hello?" she slurred.

Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter in some useless effort to ground myself, I rushed, "What are you doing today?" My voice was high, unnatural, and the words seemed to run together.

As I waited, an uncomfortable knot in my stomach pulsed to the timing of my heart. It made breathing difficult, like I was breathing too-thin air, like my lungs were desperate and screaming for oxygen, and it turned my knuckles bone white.

There was a long, painful pause before she finally fumbled something that sounded like, "Edward? Is that you? It's…wait a minute." There was another pause, this one shorter, and in the background, there was a muffled thunk – something hitting the carpet – followed by a muttered 'damn it'.

"Edward… it's… _seven_. In the morning. Why are you up? What's wrong?"

Momentarily struck dumb, I stared out the window. It was cloudy as usual, but between the tufts of cotton, there were patches of pink sky, and beyond the tree line, vertical bright yellow bars of light announced the rise of the sun. Somehow in my distraction, I'd completely lost track of time. How much sleep I'd actually gotten was a mystery.

"Shit," I muttered, feeling like an absolute idiot. Frustrated, my fingers raked through my hair, tugging hard enough to make me wince. "Sorry. I woke you up. Fuck. Look, I'll call back later. I'm sorry."

"What?" she answered, her voice a little more coherent. "No, it's alright. What is it? Everything okay?"

"No, God. Just never mind."

There was more shuffling through the line. Louder, she pushed, "Tell me."

Like a five year old kid, I stumbled through some half-assed response, thanking God and every other deity that she couldn't see my face. My cheeks were on fire and no doubt scarlet. "I was just… I don't know… seeing what you are doing… today."

"What?"

I sighed and stared up at the ceiling, following the faint spider web of cracks in the plaster. Driven by embarrassment and discomfort, I blurted, "Are you busy today?"

Bella chuckled softly, which did nothing to help the flames that seemed to now envelope my face. "No, not really. I was just going to do some laundry. It's Thursday…remember, I don't work today. Did you want to do something?"

"Well, I was thinking I'd drive to Seattle. I thought maybe…"

"Yeah?" I could hear her smile.

Another flare of heat pushed up my neck as I forced out the request that I'd been building myself up to all morning. Gripping the counter again for some kind of grounding, I mumbled into the receiver, "Do you want to go? I was… thinking that we could spend the day there… or something."

"Sure."

I blinked, surprised by the speed and certainty of her response. "Really?"

"Yeah. Are we going for something specific or just for fun?"

My face cooled and my hold on the counter's edge loosened. "I need to pick up something for… you know, Emmett's and Rose's wedding and for–" I stopped just short, thinking better of myself. "I figured it'd be shitty of me to show up with nothing. I'm not that much of a dick."

Bella laughed outright, not bothering to disguise her amusement, and I found myself smiling. Relief and something akin to happiness throbbed through my veins. Through residual giggles, she managed, "When do you want to leave?"

Glancing at the clock, I hesitated before answering. "Want to go now? We can… eat lunch there or something."

"Now?"

Scrubbing my face, I tried to determine what her tone meant. In the back of my mind, a small voice yelled at me that she was only agreeing because she felt guilty or because she pitied me. Another voice, a louder one, told the small one to shut the fuck up and to take whatever I could. "Fuck, I don't know," I groaned into my palm. "In an hour or two then? Or later is okay if you want to sleep. You probably do. Whenever."

"Now's fine," she laughed again. "Just let me throw on some clothes. I'm not exactly decent right now."

Abruptly, I straightened, hearing what I could have sworn was a hint of flirtation. My earlier unease and discomfort vanished completely, shoved away by something else altogether, and a startled "What?" fell out of my mouth.

Almost as if she were standing here in front of me, I could see Bella smirking and winking at me when she not so innocently replied, "Or I could just go naked. If you want."

"Shit."

**~.~.~**

The second my foot hit the first step leading up to her porch, the door flung wide. By the time I reached the porch itself, two slender arms had already wrapped themselves around my neck and the lines of _her_ were flush against the lines of _me_. I hadn't expected that kind of greeting; there was no hesitation in the way Bella latched on to me, no pause or split second of indecision. Her eagerness – her willingness – again drove my ever-present insecurities away and made me forget to think, at least for the time being. All I could do was smile and breathe.

"Hey," she murmured, pressing her lips to my cheek. Instead of a quick hello peck, her lips hovered just above my skin, lingering and lightly brushing back and forth against my day's worth of stubble. I heard what I could only describe as a contented sigh.

For a too-brief instant, I just stood there, dumb and happy and holding her with one hand flattened against the small of her back, the other resting on the swell of her hip. She smelled fresh and sweet, that same mixture of flowers and girlish soap that invaded my dreams. Breathing her in and touching her this way, chaste but intimate, relaxed my muscles and soothed my racing thoughts. This was the familiarity that I'd missed and denied myself over the last few days. Warmth flooded my veins and swelled my chest.

"Are you ready?" I finally asked, reluctant and not really wanting to change anything about this particular moment.

She pulled back, but only far enough to look me in the eye. She was grinning my grin – that full-on grin I loved that stretched across her entire face – and her eyes were sparkling, liquid and alive in the morning light. A misbehaving strand of hair fell loose from her ponytail and curled into her mouth, drawing my focus and tempting me far too much. I was jealous of that strand of hair. She had no idea how striking she was, how beautiful – none whatsoever.

I smiled back because Bella looked… _excited_. I wasn't sure what exactly I'd done, but somehow, without really understanding or thinking, I'd managed to do something right.

**~.~.~**

It took all of thirty minutes to find and purchase a wedding gift for my brother and his fiancée. I'd anticipated a much longer affair since I had no clue what to buy for a couple who had, for all intents and purposes, a fully stocked house. Unsurprisingly, however, Bella was way ahead of me.

I hadn't realized just how close she and Rosalie had become until the moment we walked into an antique shop off of 1st. When she saw a particular glass crystal serving set gathering dust on the top shelf of an old pine jelly cupboard, she lit up like it was Christmas. I could only laugh as she animatedly pointed and explained that the set contained precisely the pieces Rose was lacking in her collection. It was over my head, but I wasn't stupid. The set was pricey, maybe a little more than I'd have normally spent, and frankly, I probably could have had one of my suppliers find something just like it, but Bella's enthusiasm was more than good enough argument for me. On top of that, I owed Rosalie for coming to my rescue at Bella's birthday dinner. It wasn't like Emmett would give a damn anyway. If Bella were even half right, he would likely thank me for putting a smile on his wife's face.

Leaving the store, bag in hand, we veered right, heading toward the Market. In some kind of event of cosmic good fortune, instead of autumn's usual overcast skies and light drizzle, the morning's clouds had given way to bright blue and yellow sun, heating the air enough that my long sleeve t-shirt sufficed. It was a good day for just walking around, for doing nothing pressing or important, to just… _date_. In other words, to do normal things that normal people did. And fuck, if it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be.

When we were about a block away, I made the mistake of glancing up, following the rising lines of the glass-fronted buildings overlooking the Sound. One building in particular stuck out amongst all others, gray and angular and modern, with tinted glass that reflected the sun like a mirror. The sight of it made my mouth twist in distaste, but I couldn't seem to look away. Ten floors up, on the right hand side, I knew precisely which windows were theirs.

While my feet kept moving, everything else seemed to fade, and as though it were yesterday, I could feel the coolness of that same glass against my forehead as I stared down at the drifting boats and busy docks, listening to yet another lecture on all my deficiencies and failures as a son.

"_Well, it's certainly been a while this time, hasn't it, son? What? Six months? Eight? That's a fine way to treat your mother. You don't even pick up the phone anymore. You just go off and hide in that old house and we never hear from you. Like you want nothing to do with the family at all... __You're not even trying, are you? You know, I ran into Alistair Brody the other day at the hospital. He said he hasn't seen you in months. Months, Edward. Do you just not even want to try to get better?" _

"_Carlisle, stop it. You're being unfair. That's not your business anyway. Edward is here visiting now and that's all that matters. Give him a break." _

"_No, Esme, he needs to hear it. Someone has to say it. He needs to understand what he's doing to this family and explain why he doesn't seem to care enough to try anymore. We've lost two children, not one. I want to know why he can't get his ass out of bed to see a goddamned therapist." _

_What I'd done to the family... Wasn't it obvious? I'd destroyed it. _

"_What the hell do you want from me, _Dad_?" _

"_Nothing, Edward. Just... nothing at all." _

"_Oh, God! Like you're one to talk. You just packed up and left! __And then you tell me you want me to visit Mom. Not you – don't think I don't notice that it's always that I need to visit Mom. But every fucking time I'm here, you start in on the same old shit... __I'm not like you! Have you _really _never noticed that? Not all of us think like you do."_

_"You're over–"_

"_But if you must know, _Dad_, Brody's a fucking quack and just wants to load me up on pills that don't do anything but make me sick. But that doesn't really matter to you, now does it? __And for fuck's sake, don't tell me I don't care. I know – Christ, don't I know it – that it's all my fault. Every goddamned bit of it. I know! Why don't you tell me again? Will that make you feel better? __I'm so sorry I can't just 'get over it' and be your golden child. I'm sorry I'm not Emmett. Or her." _

"_Don't you dare yell–" _

"_You know what? Fuck you. Fuck all of this. I'll tell you what, I'll make this easy on us all. I won't be back and you won't have to worry about any of this anymore. Just..." _

"_Edward, please!"_

"_I'm sorry, Mom. I just… I can't do this anymore. I can't…"_

"Shit," I muttered, as I sucked in a ragged breath, shaking my head to clear it, trying to latch onto the sidewalk beneath me and the girl beside me instead of pale beige walls and hardwood floors. Silently, I begged. I didn't need this right now – preferably not ever – but not today. My throat felt as though it were closing, slowing suffocating me, and the coffee we'd picked up on the way burned my insides, violently churning and edging up my esophagus. Even as nausea surged, making me want to heave everything I had, self-directed anger and bitterness washed through my limbs.

Abruptly, Bella tugged at my arm, wrenching me away, and stared up at me, her eyes wide and alarmed. "You okay? What's wrong?"

Swallowing a thick, salty lump, I forced a counterfeit smile and looked everywhere but directly at her, knowing that she'd see right through me if I couldn't hide the panic that I knew sat just beneath the surface. "Nothing. I'm fine. Just remembered that I left something on at home," I lied, silently pleading for her to just let it go.

"Bullshit."

Of course she wouldn't let it go. "Seriously, it's nothing," I repeated.

Her arm slipped around my elbow and her hand dug into my pocket to find my balled fist. "I've told you, Edward. You are a pathetic liar. Spit it out."

The sigh that came out of me stuttered, audible evidence of the bleeding that I couldn't seem to suppress. I swallowed again, pushing back the bite of rising acid, and vaguely pointed at the tall, pale gray structure a few blocks in front of us. "That's my parents' building ahead."

Her mouth relaxed into a small 'o' and her features softened in understanding. Slender fingers wound between mine and squeezed, even as she faked casual conversation, allowing me a moment to settle. "Really? I bet they have an amazing view."

The bag on my left arm shifted and the stretched out handles bit into my wrist. Something resembling a laugh spilled, but there was no amusement there. "Yeah. I guess," I managed.

We were both quiet for the next half block. Punctuated by the hum of cars and random passersby, our silence was the kind I despised because I knew that this topic wasn't closed. She was simply allowing me time to process. At the intersection, Bella squeezed my hand once more and softly asked, "Do you want to go say hello?"

Every muscle in my body locked and my chest compressed, but I was undecided if I felt angry or just empty. I'd promised them and myself that I'd never set foot in their house again, and that was a promise I intended on keeping. Nothing was worth that shit; nothing was worth the days afterward of drinking myself blind so that I wouldn't have to see the sheer and utter disappointment in his eyes. Harsher and louder than I meant for Bella to hear, I spat a hateful, "Fuck, no."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Poorly disguised vulnerability tinted her voice, as if she were the one who had done something wrong.

_No! God, just…no!_ I wanted to scream, hating that I'd hurt her feelings. My frame crumpled in immediate remorse, eclipsing all else. "No, it's not… shit," I stammered, ignoring the blinking green light at the crosswalk. "It's not you. I just…I just don't want to see them. Not now. Not _today_.

"You've seen what happens. It just… never ends well, okay? I'm… sorry."

Tentatively, I smiled in what I hoped was reassurance, but she said nothing. Her mouth settled into a straight line that gave away little. At least that wretched vulnerability had disappeared, I argued, thankful for some signal, however small, that she accepted my apology as truth. When I catalogued, searching for more, I saw something hard etched into her expression, a direct contrast to the gentleness of her grip on my hand. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly – the slight, unnatural lift of her chin, the barely noticeable narrowing and quick flicker of her eyes, or maybe the way her left cheek sucked in between her teeth. While it wasn't obvious to anyone else, I had the distinct impression that she was… angry or indignant, yet at the same time, for some reason, I was pretty damned sure that her ire wasn't directed at me.

It took me a moment, but then, like I'd been hit by a ton of bricks, I grasped that instead of being angry _at_ me, Bella was angry_ for_ me. And somehow, coming from her, that didn't bother me. _At all_. Instead of the irritation that would normally swamp me at such a thing, I felt… I didn't have a word for the particular feeling that that knowledge elicited. All I knew was that it was warm, filling, and maybe a little comforting, and it made me forget. So I smiled wider, this time in earnest, reveling in whatever this was, and snaked my arm around her waist, kissing the top of her head until she finally smiled back.

**~.~.~**

After lunch and after depositing that godforsaken heavy bag in the car, we meandered toward the waterfront, not really following any distinct path or direction. Occasionally, a store window would catch Bella's eye and we'd stop. But most of the time, we just… walked. We talked about random, unimportant topics that made us laugh, and the entire time we were together, she never let me go. That brief moment near my parents' washed away as if it'd never occurred. Even with that slight mar, it didn't require a lot of thinking on my part to acknowledge that today was the best day I'd had in as long as I could remember.

"Edward?" she started. We slowed, and I wasn't sure why. "Can we go in here? For just a few minutes."

When I looked to my right, there was a storefront decorated in shades of blue and yellow and pink. Propped up in the corner, there was a furry brown bear with black stitched eyes. Pink thread made her smile, and she wore a bib and a lavender bow between her ears. Beside her were artfully stacked columns of books. And there were a half a dozen dolls and what looked to be a painted dollhouse, circled by a chugging train.

I glanced down at Bella, my mind immediately flying to the lone image of her son framed in matte silver. When she met me gaze, her eyes were sad but strangely, her mouth was curved upward into a soft – maybe wistful – smile.

"Are you sure?" Involuntarily, my arm flexed and drew closer to my side, pulling her tighter against my ribcage.

"I want to get something for your niece," she murmured, her head tilting ever so slightly, still staring at the store's contents behind the glass. "And– it would be _easier_ if you went with me." There was both admittance and question in her tone and in the way she looked away and down to the concrete, as if she expected some kind of judgment.

She certainly wouldn't get that from me. Without speaking, I nodded and opened the door, wincing at the jangle of the doorbells.

I didn't know what to expect, what to even think, as I followed her, silently and slowly walking between the rows.

The shop itself was small and neat, clearly cared for by its owner. Overhead, the lights were muted, and it was comfortably quiet in here, away and insulated from the city sounds. In the background, maybe from speakers in a back office, there was a tinkle of a piano – a nocturne by Chopin, I guessed.

Everywhere I looked, all around and filling the shelves, there were reminders that, from everything I knew, I'd believed that Bella would be desperate to avoid. Maybe I expected that she'd take one look around the store and bolt. Or maybe, she would cry as she'd done before on her staircase that night.

But she didn't do any of that; at least not that I could tell. Unlike me, Bella seemed to relish the reminders. Every so often, she'd pause in front of a display and touch something, usually a toy that I couldn't name, with a certain smile lighting her face. It was one I'd never seen before. Just like I had my own personal Bella-smile, her son had his, too, and I recognized that she was allowing me to see it – allowing me to witness a side that she normally hid from the world.

I wasn't sure how long we spent there – maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty. But as time wore on, a different kind of ache, a kind of secondhand, borrowed mourning, bitter and sweet all at once, blossomed, throbbing each time she straightened a pastel box or thumbed through a book or chuckled at the silly rolly-eyes on a stuffed barnyard animal. It hurt me to see her here, to see the longing that seemed to pour out of her. It hurt because I could do nothing about it.

"Can I help you?" an elderly woman asked, breaking into our solitude when she appeared at the end of the aisle. Her cotton colored hair bobbed as she padded toward us, smiling a soft wrinkly smile. "Are you two expecting?"

I tensed immediately, cringing when in my periphery, I saw a look of pure shock flood Bella's face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out, and she pulled the animal she'd been holding tightly to her chest. Without conscious thought, my palm found the dip in her back, rubbing circles as if to calm us both.

"No, ma'am," I answered, recovering before Bella and trying my damndest to be polite and not snap. "We're just looking for my niece. Thank you, we're fine."

"Ah," she replied slowly, eyeing us both in hesitant speculation. "I didn't mean to presume. You just looked so…" The old woman stopped mid sentence as her focus settled on Bella, and her rheumy eyes widened as if she somehow _knew, _as if there was something obvious that she could read that I missed. Shifting topics, she went on, "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

Just as I was readying to wave her off again, wanting to be rid of the source of Bella's disquiet, Bella cleared her throat and placed the animal she held back on the shelf. As if nothing at all had just occurred, she rattled off some name of which I'd never heard.

"Of course, my dear," the shopkeeper cooed with a smile. But it wasn't the same smile as before. Again, I was struck by the way this woman, this stranger, seemed to automatically _know_. "Lovely choice. I have just what you're looking for."

Five minutes later, we exited the store with that same bear from the window, complete with her pink thread smile and satiny bow, wrapped and in a bag slung over my shoulder.

As the sun began to trail across the horizon, hand in hand, we drifted closer to the water line, following it north until we were away from most of the dockside hubbub. Frankly, I wasn't sure where we were going until I saw a vacant pier, sticking far out into the water, away from the rest of the piers and boats. Someone had even been clever enough to place a small bench at the very end.

"Is this were you bring all the girls when you want to impress them?" Bella asked with a wink. It didn't escape my attention that this was really the first thing she'd said since we left the toy store. But then, I hadn't exactly been chatty either. No, I'd been too busy trying to piece together Bella's reactions to the store itself and to the elderly shopkeeper.

The ache that I'd felt while I'd watched her smile and touch those toys had never left. Instead, it festered and it made me want to hold her and reassure her… of what, I wasn't certain. The look on her face haunted me, knowing that it was sad yearning that I saw, but with little else to go on, I wasn't sure if it was a longing for the past or for the future. Motioning for her to sit, I wondered. I'd never even considered if she wanted… _that_. I'd just assumed that that answer was a clear no.

For a long moment we sat there and stared out across the water, each living in our own internal spaces. The Sound was as close to glass as it ever was, its waters calmly rippling from the distant line of boats slowly returning from the day's excursions. Above, the sun seemed to flare, a bright fireball that scattered and glittered off the surface.

"Thank you, Edward. For today," she whispered. Before I could answer, I heard the exhalation of a comfortable sigh as she nestled closer into my side. One arm draped loosely across my waist, and her head found my shoulder. When I turned, the light sea breeze lifted strands of her hair and tickled my face.

"It wasn't perfect," I whispered back, cupping the top of her shoulder. "Not like I'd hoped."

"Yeah, it was."

No matter her words, no matter how much I wished, I couldn't shake the images or thoughts that plagued my brain. When I looked out across the Sound, I saw her clutching that animal to her chest, and when I stared down at the weathered planks of the pier beneath us, all I really saw were sad, sable eyes and… wanting.

Without permission, my mouth started moving. "Do you–" I struggled, trying to find words that fit. "Never mind."

"Do I what?" Her arm tightened around my waist.

"No, never mind."

"What?" she asked, pulling away and cocking her head. "Please?"

I stared a hole through the planks, cursing my bastard, betraying tongue. Closing my eyes didn't help. "Do you ever think about… fuck, just no. It's none of my business."

"Having another baby?" she finished for me, somehow reading my mind. My whole body recoiled, knowing what a dick my curiosity made me. Of all the conversations in the world, I had to go with the worst, the one that had the most potential to hurt. _Fucking idiot._

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I shouldn't-"

"Sometimes," she breathed, interrupting my attempt at an apology. "But I can't."

I nodded, understanding at once, and pulled her against my chest.

"No, I really… _can't_," she clarified, staring up at me. Confused, I watched her grimace and take a deep breath. "Last spring, I had surgery… so that… what happened with James, Jr. could never happen again, even if by accident. I suppose it's reversible, but I _won't_. I won't dare risk passing on that gene again. I won't risk another child. Not now that I know."

The silence was deafening as I struggled to find the right thing to say. "You could… adopt or something," I fumbled. "If you wanted. You would be a good–" Finishing that statement was impossible.

Bella laughed softly and squeezed my side, but when my gaze met hers, there was moisture pooling and gleaming along the rims of her eyes. "Maybe… maybe one day I'll be ready for something like that again."

She pulled away once more. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" My brows climbed, not following at all.

"Want children."

I might as well have just been punched in the gut. My lungs seized, and I knew that I was gaping, disbelieving that she could even think of asking me such a question. My throat bobbed and gulped as I tried to find air and some sense of calm. Was the answer to that question not perfectly obvious? I wanted to scream. _No, of course not!_ That was something so far, so very far out of my reach that there was no point in even considering it.

Choking on the very air I breathed in, I stumbled, "Bella, I can barely take care of myself. I can barely stay sober… _Impossible_."

"Not now. One day," she pressed, sliding her palm against the flat of my stomach.

I shook my head, clenching my eyes shut, not accepting that one day would be any different from today. "No. I won't ruin anyone else's life. _No_."

Abruptly, she shifted. Sitting sideways across my lap, Bella gripped my face on either side, forcing my eyes to hers. I didn't know what she saw in my expression, but she wouldn't allow me to look away. With a conviction I'd never seen from her, a sincerity that echoed and dug into my very bones, she kissed my lips, closed mouth and hard, and told me, "You can have anything you want, Edward. You just have to want it badly enough."

And I knew with no doubt whatsoever that she wasn't just talking about having children one day down the road. She was talking about everything – about the life that I could have if I just wanted it _enough_.

Surely, my hands were shaking as they held her. This kind of intensity left me reeling, spinning and unsure of up or down. I didn't understand the faith she had in me – I couldn't fathom it. It was misplaced, undeserved, and wrong, and I was so, _so_ poorly equipped to accept it. But I heard her and I felt her. Biting my lip, I rested my forehead against hers, trying to not give in to the welling of emotion that faith caused.

She kissed me again, this time softer, and then again, as if she were trying to drive the words home.

"Does that include you?" I whispered.

"I've told you. But I'll tell you as many times as it takes. You already have me."

_**.  
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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Oceans, _by Pearl Jam


	31. Just Gotta Get Me Somewhere

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Two ladies always make this better. Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale.

* * *

_**Just Gotta Get Me Somewhere**_

* * *

"_Jesus_…"

Swallowing uncomfortably, I stared like an idiot, unblinking, more than likely gaping, and completely transfixed as she descended the stairs. For just a moment, the nearly debilitating nausea that had plagued me for the last week and a half in anticipation of tonight seemed to lift, and all I could see – all I wanted to see – was her.

Certainly, I'd seen Bella polished and dressed up before. On rare occasions, I'd seen her hair out of its usual ponytail, curled and framing her face, and there were those handful of times when I'd looked into smoky eyes and kissed berry-stained lips. And at least twice, I'd even been granted a view of mile-long legs in heels, although the recollection of one of those evenings would forever be marred by the humiliation and blur of alcohol.

While seeing her out of her normal raggedy jeans and paint-splattered pullover was nothing new, nothing – _nothing_ – had prepared me for her tonight – for _this_. Because _t__his,_ I'd want to remember as long as I breathed. Bella looked like something out of a dream. A very, very good dream – the kind I hated leaving.

Clearly pleased by my less than coherent reaction to her entrance, Bella just grinned, flashing me a megawatt row of pearl white teeth as she playfully grabbed my hand and motioned for me to twirl her. Smiling like the fool I was, I automatically complied, thoroughly incapable of denying her anything at this point, and ungracefully spun her to the tune of her girlish giggles. When she came around a third time, ducking underneath my outstretched arm, she looked up at me through blackened eyelashes and threaded her fingers between mine to stop.

"Yeah?" she asked, slightly breathless and still staring up at me in ways that made my breathing falter. Vaguely, I processed that there was just a hint of uncertainty in her question, as if she were searching for some stamp of my approval, and frankly, it confounded the fuck out of me. Surely, she knew; surely, she grasped just how _good_ she looked. Because she did. Seeing her like this, half of me wanted to fall at her feet in some kind of sick worship. The other half, however – the very loud half – wanted unwrap her like a present. Either way, my palm, pressed flat against hers, felt like it was burning with the need to touch more of her.

I cleared my throat to buy time, trying to come up with some articulate response that didn't involve divulging that I wanted to strip that dress right off of her in a very ungentlemanly fashion. When her brow arched, I finally muttered a rough, "Yeah." My voice was just a touch too high in pitch.

I had no clue what color to call her dress other than dark blue. But it wasn't just any old dark blue. Set against the ivory of her skin, it reminded me of the sky just before the sun went down. The fabric was clingy, too, flattering her curves like it'd been designed precisely for her, and it shimmered a little every time she moved, drawing my eyes to follow. It was the kind of dress that made me look for what was hidden beneath it. Pointedly, not even attempting to disguise my appraisal, my gaze swept up and down in a repeating circuit, sliding from the long pale span of her neck, to the hint of displayed cleavage, to the roundness of her hips, and finally to the delicate lines of her bare calves.

Fingering the fine scalloped edge of the almost sheer cream-colored sweater she wore, I leaned down and brushed my lips against hers. "You have _no_ idea."

"Oh, really?" A faint pink colored the apples of her cheeks, somehow making her even more beautiful. Flashing me another grin, she made a show of smoothing the dark lapels of my jacket before moving to straighten my tie. "Well, you are…" Bella whispered, staring at the burgundy knot at my throat. "Entirely too tempting…"

I flushed immediately, startled by both her words and the intonation. Compliments were not something that I took easily or gladly. In fact, most of the time, my brain automatically shot to the other end of the spectrum in disbelief, leaving me feeling worse and undeserving in retaliation. But in this case, maybe because it was from _her_ and because there was no denying the warmth that seemed to invade my entire being, a touch of pride trickled through my veins, a satisfaction that my need for her was not one-sided.

Unable to stop myself, my forefinger hooked under her chin and tilted her face up. Unabashedly, I stared and breathed her in, swimming in the fragrance coming off of her skin. Wetting my lips, I murmured, "You have more of that color lipstick upstairs, right?"

Her answer didn't matter because in less than a second, my hands framed her sides, abruptly pulling her tight against me, and my mouth was on hers, exactly where it had wanted to be since the moment she walked down the stairs.

Kissing Bella was something like drowning or floating, like being engulfed in nothing but pure feeling and wanting. When her lips parted, opening eagerly to touch her tongue to mine, I thought I would combust. Touching her like this… it made me feel hot all over, and like always, I didn't want to ever stop. I just wanted _more_. I didn't care that her hands went to my hair, tugging and hopelessly tangling it between her fingers, ruining every bit of effort I'd made to tame it. I didn't care that the clock on the wall was ticking and that we would have to speed to make it there on time. Somehow, I didn't even care about who would be waiting there when we arrived. Right now, all I cared about was the soft curves beneath my hands, the quiet, almost-whimpers that echoed in my ears, and the way her lips moved against mine, claiming me for her own.

**~.~.~**

Ahead, against the backdrop of the darkening sky and even darker trees, the outline of the old clapboard Presbyterian church loomed. Hesitant and already hating what I _knew_ would come the moment we climbed the stairs, my steps slowed to a crawl. All of my earlier bliss seemed to wash away, lost in a sudden sinking sea of dread, bitterness, and embarrassment for both past and what was sure to be future failures. I wanted to kick myself for thinking that I'd be able to handle this. Moreover, I wanted to kick myself for being so goddamned weak, for not being capable of normalcy, even though I wanted it so much.

Even out in the parking lot, I could already hear him in my mind. I could hear the words I knew so well, the ones that cut so deeply and burrowed beneath my skin, and when I blinked, in that moment of blackness, as clear as day, I could see the disappointment and dissatisfaction that I knew would be there in my father's eyes. I could see my mother and my brother, full of sadness and regret. And as always, I could see myself folding and hopeless.

_I can't do this,_ my mind whispered over and over.

Although the night air was cool, the back of my neck was slick with nervous sweat and my lungs were heaving as though I'd just run a 5k. Inside was worse. Inside, I was an absolute mess, torn between wanting to run, wanting to punch something, and wanting to collapse to the ground. I wouldn't have believed it possible, but this anxiety was so much worse than the night of my father's party – mostly because those same memories and stares would be what greeted me. There was no likely way that that night wouldn't come up, that it wouldn't be held up and shoved in my face.

As if to prove a point, the rolling nausea came roaring back, demanding that I quell it with something – _anything_. Staring ahead at the dim light shining through the stained glass windows, there was nothing on heaven or earth that I craved more than the soothing burn of alcohol. My fist curled around an invisible glass of scotch and my damp skin pebbled, itching and begging for the numbness that it promised, that reliable, familiar outlet for my racing pulse.

"Are you okay?" Bella quietly asked from beside me. Through the light wool of my jacket, I felt her fingertips press into the top of my forearm.

Pouring out of the open front doors were the sounds of people and of the notes of the organ and the piano playing some romantic instrumental arrangement. It sounded like a funeral dirge to me. Closing my eyes, I tried to breathe and to focus only on the pressure of her hand, willing the spike in my blood pressure to fall.

_I can't fucking do this._

"No," I finally answered, my voice ragged, and I lifted my face up to the sky in defeat. "I'm going to fuck it up again. I won't be able to stop myself." My jaw locked and stung, and I wanted to cry as the most embarrassing truth of all came tumbling out in a hoarse whisper. "I want a drink. _So_ much."

"Look at me."

I shook my head, despising the mix of sympathy and disdain that I was sure would be there if I faced her.

"That wasn't a request."

My eyes popped open, surprised and momentarily distracted by the firmness and command in her tone. Reluctantly, I dropped my focus to the gravel drive and then finally risked a glance at the woman beside me.

Where I'd anticipated disgust, there was none. Where I'd believed there would be pity, it was absent. Instead, Bella wore that same resolute expression I'd seen in Seattle, that curious mash of her lips and narrowing of her eyes. It spoke of anger and defense.

Before I could fully process what that meant, her fingers, soft and caressing, glided down my cheek, pausing for a second on my bottom lip. Her hands were gentle and soothing, running up and down my face like she was quieting an agitated animal. It threw me because it was such a stark contradiction to the determinedness of her features. With no hesitation whatsoever, she looked me in the eye and spoke with an absolute surety that I couldn't hope to comprehend. "You _won't_ fuck up."

"Yes-"

"No, you won't." she interrupted. With the height of her heels, her face was close to level with mine, only inches away and filling my vision such that she was all that I could see. It felt like she was staring directly into me, seeing everything naked and laid bare. I wanted to ask her why the hell she was here. I wanted to ask her why she thought I was worth her time. But my throat caught because I feared the answer.

I should have been mortified at this kind of dependency. Having someone know me so intimately, having someone see all of my weaknesses, was wholly humiliating. Yet even as my skin heated, part of me clung to her like a small child, and inside, I was begging for her to make things right and begging for myself to believe her.

Seeing what I didn't know, Bella sighed softly and her eyes widened, suddenly warm and filled with some emotion that I didn't recognize at all. "You're not alone here, okay? You don't have to do this by yourself."

"Why-" I choked.

"Because you're not." Pressing her lips to the spot just before my ear, she whispered, "Come on." My eyes closed again as I took a deep breath, inhaling her perfume as if it were some magical calming elixir. When I nodded, she kissed me once more, this time on the lips, smiled, and then gently pulled me toward the steps. "We're going to be late."

As we stepped inside the vestibule, I prayed a silent prayer. Perhaps naïve, I thought that if I could just hold it together tonight and if I could just act like a decent human being for once, maybe, just maybe that would say something. Maybe that would prove something.

My brother deserved that. My parents deserved one night free from my fuck ups. And God only knew that Bella deserved it. The thought of disappointing her consumed me, leaving a thick, sour taste in my mouth. If I screwed up again, surely that would be it for her. She _would_ leave me and would want nothing to do with me; I knew that. What I didn't know was what exactly her leaving would do to me now, other than that my life would be far, far worse than the days before her. Imagining those days sent acid up my esophagus and made my heart hammer against my sternum. _No, not now_, I pleaded, forcibly willing those thoughts away. I shook my head and shoved my hand in my pocket to hide the way it balled.

In the corner of my vision, I saw that Bella's eyes were glued straight ahead into the sanctuary. Inside, the bright overhead lights were off. In their place, there were thousands of tiny twinkling white lights, all too reminiscent of the ballroom in which my father's birthday had been held, and dozens of ivory candles burned, illuminating the rows of tombstone windows and the arch of the altar at the front. In the low light, Bella's irises were nearly black, but at the same time, they were alight and gleaming from the flickering flames of the nearby candles. There was a small smile affixed to her lips, too, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth that distracted me, making me question what she was thinking, or maybe what she was _remembering_. An image of her in gauzy white with one arm hooked around the arm of some faceless man came unbidden, skittering across my vision. Idiotically, not to mention inappropriately, I wondered what her wedding had been like, if it'd been like this or something else altogether.

"Edward…" a voice called, abruptly wrenching me away from my reverie. I'd have recognized that voice anywhere. Instantaneously, my insides began to slosh and twist again, and it was all I could do not to visibly flinch.

By the door, my father appeared, tall, lean, and dressed in tailored black. As always, he was put together, looking every bit the dignified doctor he was. The only sign that gave away his age were the smudges of ash at his temples. A single wine-colored rose adorned his lapel, marking him as Emmett's best man. That wasn't surprising.

I didn't answer at first, instead waiting for him to continue, most likely with some snide snip or recollection of my behavior back in August. I was certain that he'd heard all about it, probably from Mike himself. Even if not, his greetings always came with some jab.

After a second, however, nothing more came, and the pressure of Bella's hand on my arm increased as if to prompt me. Or more likely, to encourage me. While she said nothing, it was enough, and like a mantra, I replayed the words she'd just uttered, telling me that I wasn't alone. Belief was hard won, my mind instinctively disallowing it, but for tonight, I gritted my teeth and swore again that I'd do my damnedest to try. _For her_, if for no one else.

Swallowing uneasily, I muttered a hasty greeting. "Dad…"

He nodded slowly and his brow creased as though he were trying to figure out what to make of me. He was probably surprised I'd bothered to show. But I'd seen that look countless times over the years. It was on that fine line between curiosity and condescension, so of course, my first reaction was anger and my first inclination was to ask him what the hell he was trying to prove.

But tonight, I couldn't do that, I told myself one more time. If I were going to keep my mouth shut, meeting that probing gaze was impossible, so rather than look directly at him, I forced myself to focus over his shoulder at the old-fashioned bulletin board on the wall that read out the congregation's statistics. Little white letters said that one hundred and two people attended last week's service.

For what felt like century, as the last remaining guests diverted around us, neither of us said anything more. Between us, there might as well have been a wall. It was that awkward, miserable kind of silence, the type of apprehensive standstill where I had no clue what to say but knew that something had to be said. All I knew was that whatever came out of my mouth would inevitably be wrong by his standards, thus the silent tension simply kept rising until it felt like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff.

When I was nearly at my limit, ready to either give in and say something smart or bolt out the door, Bella squeezed my arm again in reassurance and coughed. As if nothing at all were amiss, she smiled politely and murmured, "Dr. Cullen? It's so nice seeing you again."

My father started, and I watched his gaze slip from me to her. In return, he quickly smiled back – a true smile that wrinkled the corners of his pale eyes – and took Bella's outstretched hand. His response was stilted, but even I could hear the startling sincerity. "Please, just call me Carlisle. I'm glad you could make it. I was hoping that…" He looked at me briefly and then to the spot where her arm linked through the crook of my elbow. "You'd be here."

"The church is absolutely beautiful. I've driven by here so many times and had no idea. Really, the decorations are amazing," she went on, waving at the lights and the elaborate stands of roses in casual conversation. "I have to say, though, I was under the impression that this was going to be a small affair. Just a step up from a civil ceremony." She scoffed in disbelief – a little, polite sound that wasn't quite a snort. "At least that was what Rose and Emmett told me..."

At that, the grimace I'd undoubtedly been wearing, along with some measure of the tension, broke, and my lips grudgingly turned up. Stifling an unexpected laugh, I turned and kissed her hair, lingering there and momentarily forgetting the strain of the situation and the person who stood across from me.

"What?" she asked, looking up at me in confusion. I shrugged and another chuckle inadvertently spilled out. In my periphery, I was surprised to see a matching smirk on my father's face.

Before I could explain, my father spoke up. "Ah, yes…" he started, dragging out the 's' for show. "Small, perhaps. But my wife… well…" He waved grandly at the same decorations, seemingly eager for the exchange. "Simple is not really something Esme fully grasps. She loves these kinds of things. She loves to entertain, period… I'll just say that Rosalie's mother has been a _very_ good sport."

Bella laughed outright, grinning in instant understanding. "I suppose I can see that. She has lovely taste."

"I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear that. She's… looking forward to seeing you – _both of you_ – again."

_Here it comes_, I guessed, my muscles involuntarily locking in place, anticipating the words and the onslaught that would follow. Something almost painful throbbed in my chest, and I could feel my lungs beginning to scream for air. For a split second, the world seemed to go black, and my nostrils burned from the scent of melting wax.

Still smiling, Bella looked up to me, narrowed her eyes, and then glanced to the sanctuary again. Leaning and pressing against my side, she offered me the one thing that I needed the most. "Edward, we probably need to be seated. We're dangerously late. Unless you want face Rose and explain…"

"Right," I breathed, nearly gasping as a trickle of relief filtered through the anxiety.

"Bella, would you like an escort?" my father asked quietly – carefully almost. "With no groomsmen or ushers, I'm filling in for certain guests."

My eyes darted to his before I could stop them. Just as quietly, I answered for us both, "No… thank you. You probably… It's getting full, but I'm sure we'll find a spot in the back somewhere. It's okay."

"Right side, second pew."

"Pardon me?" I mumbled, already drawing away.

He smiled tentatively and his clasped hands twisted. For the first time in I wasn't sure how long, I heard my father stutter. "You- your seat is on the second row, son. Just behind your mother and me."

**~.~.~**

From across the room, I watched my brother and Rosalie drift from table to table to say their hellos and thank yous. Laughing and hand in hand, as if they were fused, they were the picture of harmony – the poster couple for wedded bliss. Every now and then, seemingly without thought, Emmett placed his free hand on Rosalie's abdomen, gently massaging over the ivory silk of her dress. And each time, she stared up at him in response, grinning with an almost blinding intensity. Seeing them together made me feel voyeuristic, like I was prying or watching a moment of intimacy that was meant to be shared only between them.

Still, their happiness struck me. I'd seen Emmett laugh and I'd seen him literally dance like an idiot, but I'd never seen him like this. His joy was so apparent, so unveiled, that it literally radiated off of him; the love they shared was evident in every single motion and in every word that was shared.

I wanted to say that I was happy for him – for _them_. I was. I was proud of my brother, pleased that he'd found his other half and that he would soon have the family he'd always wanted. On some level, however, a baser, more selfish level, seeing that kind of contentment and assuredness only served as a stark reminder of that which I wasn't allowed to have. It made me feel empty and envious.

I closed my eyes and brought my glass to my lips, my ears, out of habit, listening for the tinkling clink of shifting ice. The curved rim was cool and hard, and upon contact, my body mechanically braced for the smoke and heat it'd come to expect.

But the temperature going down was wrong. The texture was wrong. It wasn't smooth or silky and it didn't coat my mouth the way it should have. The burn wasn't right, either. Instead of warm coals, it was sharp acid, bubbling down my throat and into my stomach. More than anything, the taste was nowhere remotely close to the one my body craved. There was no smoke or sherry or oak, only overly sweet caramel and sugar.

I fucking hated Coke.

I hated what it was just as much as I hated what it wasn't.

More so, more than anything else, I despised the fact that their wedding was dry, because I knew that the excuse that was given – that Rosalie couldn't stomach the smell of alcohol – was merely that. An excuse.

The thought of the conversation that had surely gone on made me feel sick inside even as it made my blood boil in shame-filled indignation. Rationally, I couldn't blame Emmett, though. He had every reason to believe that I'd make a drunken fool out of myself given the opportunity. My track record spoke volumes, and it wasn't as though I'd done anything convincing to change it. I deserved their distrust.

Somewhere, buried deeply beneath the fuming resentment, however, I couldn't deny that there was a small measure of quiet, humbled gratitude. It was a small voice, but it was there. For days, I'd anticipated and dreaded another round of having to decide, of having to fight that godawful battle between what I wanted and what I needed to avoid. It'd been bad enough that night with Jasper. God only knew that it would have been ten times worse had I had to refuse under the expectant glare of my father from across the table. I would have surely failed. Again. At least now, I had no choice but to suffer sober.

Of course, staying sober meant that I heard every hushed whisper and saw every wary look that was thrown my way. I was only thankful that the table was large enough that conversing across really wasn't an option.

Throughout dinner, I'd merely been an observer, making eye contact or answering only when absolutely required. I was an extra, unnecessary appendage, doing my best to avoid my father's attention as well as the bittersweet smiles that my mother wore every time I mistakenly met her gaze. Just as it'd been in the vestibule, the minutes seemed to creep by, stretched out by the unease and the tense awkwardness that seemed to pervade all of my interactions. The only bright spot was the woman sitting next to me, a creature who somehow seemed to always know when to distract me with a hand on my thigh or a foot curled around my ankle.

In the background, the first notes of the band struck, and I mutely watched as Rosalie and Emmett floated to the center of the room. Moments later, my father stood and held his hand out to my mother. And after a few more minutes, Bella and I were the only ones left.

"Do you want the rest of my cake?"

The abruptness and randomness of her question tore my eyes from the dance floor. "What?"

Bella's lips quirked up, as she slid her plate toward me. "Cake. I'm done. You can have it."

For the first time since we'd sat down to dinner, I laughed, completely disarmed. The tension in my shoulders relaxed, and I felt my whole frame melt into the chair. "I'm not your garbage disposal, you realize that, right?"

"News to me. You're always stealing my dessert," she bantered. Her eyes were shining in amusement, and there was a flutter in the pit of my stomach, evocative of that moment of happiness when I'd picked her up before the wedding.

"Dinner okay?" she asked softly, as she fingered the edge of the tablecloth.

And I knew that Bella didn't mean the shrimp or the chicken.

Hesitating, I palmed the back of my neck before draping an arm across the back of her chair to cup her shoulder. Beneath my thumb, her sweater was soft and thin enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin. "I think so. I haven't punched anyone…" I frowned a little because the crack of my fist against Mike's face was one of the few things I could remember. "_Yet_."

She turned to stare out across the floor, following the winding path of my mother's and father's well-practiced waltz. A certain wistfulness – a longing, maybe – crept into her expression, something I'd caught a glimpse of during the ceremony. Again, I was left wondering what she was thinking. I thought that maybe…

That flutter intensified, this time encouraged by the same nerves that had assaulted me the morning I'd called her to go to Seattle.

"Do you… I don't know… fuck, never mind," I started, wincing at my lack of backbone.

Bella looked down at her lap as though she could read my mind. "Do I what?" There was a hint of sadness in her tone that I couldn't explain away, but it made my chest ache. More than wanting to know its cause, I wanted it gone.

Before I could second guess myself, I stood and held out my hand in strange mimicry of my father's previous actions. "Dance with me… Please."

As if I'd just grown two heads, Bella's face turned up and she gaped at me, that sadness completely wiped away. The notion that I'd surprised her and maybe even impressed her instilled in me a level of confidence that I didn't know I could possess. At least not here tonight.

"Come on. I think I remember how it's done," I chuckled, reveling in my moment of courage as I laced my fingers between hers and motioned for her to stand. "Or are you going to make me beg?"

I wasn't sure how long we danced. But without question, those were the best few minutes of the entire evening. For the duration of those too-brief songs, it was as though nothing or no one else existed. My father was forgotten. My jittery nerves and itching skin disappeared. Just as it'd been at her house, there was only she and I, floating in our own bubble of time and space.

As we swayed back and forth, my whole body was alive, acutely aware of every point of contact. I could feel one of her hands locked around my neck, her fingers gently raking through the hair at the nape, as the other rested loosely inside of mine. My palm pressed against her back, lightly running up and down, tracing the small hills and valleys of her spine. Against my chest, Bella's expanded and contracted, matching my breathing breath for breath. When I leaned down to kiss her, I could smell and taste mint and sugar from the cake.

"I didn't know you could dance," she murmured, laying her head against my shoulder.

"Mom made us learn," I answered softly, slowly steering us in a meandering circle. "You?"

"No." Her fingers halted. "Not since… high school probably."

There was a missing statement that seemed to shout from the rooftops.

"You mean, you and… you didn't… when you were married?" There was no way I could hide my incredulity.

Bella's head lifted to meet my questioning gaze. "No. We went to events, of course, but James was always… talking and schmoozing, I guess. Dancing wasn't really anything he was interested in."

"But you?" An irrational flood of anger wicked through my veins. I was certainly no romantic, but _fuck_. Her ex-husband was a goddamned imbecile. "What about you?"

Capturing my bottom lip between hers, she kissed me softly and slowly, lightly sucking and teasing with just the barest hint of tongue. A veritable tidal wave of lust and heat rolled down my spine, as I gathered her closer, and it was everything I could do to not allow my hand to slide too far down her back. When she eventually pulled away, there was a languid smile there as she whispered, "I like dancing… with you." And then her mouth was too busy to talk again.

**~.~.~**

When finally we approached the table again, it was almost as if a switch had flipped. With each step closer, my anxiety welled, bloating to levels that made my stomach weak. Somehow, in all the hubbub of her running around and choreographing the wedding and reception, I realized that I'd yet to say more than ten words to my mother. And now, spun around in her chair, she was staring at me with one hand unconsciously covering her mouth, and her eyes were gleaming with tears she was trying to hold back. Even from ten feet away, I could see that.

"Mom," I mumbled. "Everything okay?"

She stood and smiled, looking up at me with glassy eyes. My stomach plummeted when I watched her throat bob, and by her sides, her fingers worried the lavender tulle of her skirt. I recognized that discomfort – that hesitation. My _mother_ wanted to hug me, but she didn't know how I'd respond. She was afraid that I'd flip out. Out of all the uncomfortable moments, this was by far the worst and it made me feel like shit.

"Perfect," she managed. "I've just been so busy that I haven't gotten a chance… I'm so happy you're here. And you, Bella. I'm just so…" She trailed off, and I could only guess what she'd meant to say.

"Edward?" Bella interjected, lightly running her hand down my back. "Why don't you and your mom have a turn?"

Completely caught off guard, my head shot up and my eyes nervously flitted between Bella and my mother. "What?"

"Go on," she urged. "She's clearly a better dancer than me."

Seeing my distress, my mother smiled again and gestured to the air. "That's alright. My feet are already aching from these heels." But the way she looked at me said that she was anything but alright, and my mouth ran off before I even had a chance to catch up.

"Okay," I fumbled, completely ill at ease, not really knowing to whom I was saying 'okay'. I stole another glance at Bella, half wanting to snap. When I actually opened my eyes, however, I found unwavering support and encouragement in her expression, and like a light was shining down, I suddenly saw everything for what it was.

My _girlfriend_ was begging _me_ to dance with my_ mother_. Bella was begging for me to do the right thing – the _normal_ thing – because I was too much of a self-absorbed fuckwit to do it myself. The entire situation was absurd. I wanted to laugh at myself. Or mock myself. More than anything, I hated myself for being who I was. _Fuck you, Edward,_ I silently grated, clenching my fists as self-directed anger spiked through my bloodstream. _Stop being such a goddamned selfish dick._

Dancing to one song at a wedding with my mother was… simple. She wasn't the one with whom I had problems. She was merely the victim of my father's and my venom, and she'd done nothing but try to make me feel comfortable. She was the one who called and she was the one who sent me card after fucking card, to none of which I ever responded. Even at my father's godforsaken party, it'd been her who had wanted me there.

Inwardly, I sighed and gathered every bit of calm I could muster. Offering my arm in invitation, I asked a little louder, "Mom?"

Less than a minute later, I found myself on the dance floor yet again, only this time, the woman in my arms felt frail. She felt thin and less resilient than she once had. And when my mother looked up at me as we turned, there were creases by her eyes and there were wrinkles hidden by makeup at the corners of her mouth that I'd never seen before.

"So handsome," she whispered, clinging to me as if she were afraid that I was some figment. "You look… so good, Edward."

Unable to answer, I lead us around the floor in a slow foxtrot, falling into the same basic steps she'd taught me years ago.

"It's Bella, isn't it?"

Looking over her shoulder, I saw Bella watching us, stunning against the backdrop of lights and roses. "Yeah," I breathed.

My mother squeezed my palm, bringing my focus back to her. Her eyes were no longer glassy, but instead were wide and open, reminding me of times long past, times when I actually _had been_ her golden child. "I'm so happy you found her."

"I didn't," I replied honestly, acknowledging the affection and warmth that coursed through my middle. "She found me. I don't know why she sticks around."

"I do."

Not following, my brow furrowed sharply. "Why?"

She didn't answer. Instead, I heard my mother take a deep breath, as if she were steadying herself, and in a shaky whisper, she asked me, "Do you love her?"

Time shuddered and came to a grinding halt. The lights in the room swirled together and sound went missing. At the same time, my skin prickled as though I'd just leapt off the cliffs at La Push and landed in the icy Pacific. Every single muscle I had was frozen solid and only indistinctly did I grasp that we'd stopped moving. "What?" I wheezed, my lungs deflating as the air rushed out of my mouth.

Hastily, obviously seeing my immediate panic, my mother's hands smoothed the tops of my shoulders, a gesture she used to make when I was in grade school. "It's- it's not my business. I'm sorry… for prying." There were tears threatening to fall again, glittering pools that lined her lower lids. "I just haven't seen you… like this… in _so_ long. You look… happy with her."

But I was completely lost, barely registering anything other than the stampede of my heart as I tried to piece together the right words and all the chaotic feelings that rocked through my awareness. Stammering out some pitiful excuse for an answer, my tongue felt thick and uncooperative. "No, I just… haven't gotten that far…Fu- I'm…I don't -"

"It's okay," she soothed, still running her hands over my shoulders. The scratching of her nails across the fabric of my jacket sounded so loud in my ears. "Edward, I shouldn't have asked. It's okay."

Mixed in with all the confusion and chaos was an unexplainable fullness, a wholeness that flickered at the edges, waiting for me to accept it. I imagined myself staring down into a dark pool, not knowing its depths or its dangers, but still the water called. My body tingled with the nervous energy of a death drive – that unconscious, innate desire to jump and to self-destruct.

I closed my eyes, clenching them as tightly shut as I possibly could, fearing the answer that sat on the tip of my tongue – the one my mind had avoided considering. There was an answer to this question – I knew it as surely as I knew my name now that I'd been forced to think – and it scared the fuck out of me because it would eventually destroy me just as thoroughly as my family or I had already done.

Looking into worried eyes that matched mine, barely above a whisper and unable to stop myself, my voice came spilling out as nothing more than a pant.

"Maybe… I don't…"

_Yes..._

_**.  
**_

_**.  
**_

* * *

**A/N: **For those keeping track, it's Saturday, Oct. 9.

In the US, groom's side is right and bride's side is left. Typically (certainly not always), siblings sit on the pew directly behind the parents with the grandparents. Also, you'll note that Carlisle said there were no groomsmen. This was a nod to my own wedding. Ours was very formal in setting but we chose to have no wedding party. My husband had a sort of best man, but he didn't stand with him. Instead, he sat with my spouse's mom (his father is deceased).

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _New York's Killing Me, _by Ray LaMontagne


	32. How Much Longer Can You Wait

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen, for pre-reading and holding my hand. Thank you, Scooterstale, for always editing my words, for tolerating my multiple revisions, and for cracking the whip on me when I need it.

* * *

_**How Much Longer Can You Wait**_

* * *

The room was still spinning even though I was not.

I wasn't sure how long we stood there, stock still in the center of two dozen other couples, all floating and twirling and all seemingly oblivious to the utter panic that currently twisted my guts and planted my feet flat to the floor. Maybe it was only seconds or maybe we were there for minutes. It felt like a damned eternity.

As if in slow motion, I could hear my heartbeat – every single thundering beat, distinct and loud and _yes_. Each _yes_ pounded like a kettledrum in my ears, deep and low, echoing and amplifying in my head, and each corresponding smack against my sternum sent rippling shockwaves through my chest, stealing both my reason and my air. Breathing hurt; it felt as though my lungs had stopped functioning altogether and the oxygen in my blood had already depleted. Only vaguely was I aware of the too-fast rise and fall of my shoulders and the beads of sweat that slicked the back of my neck.

"Edward, breathe. Please, breathe, son," my mother soothed, her eyes now wild with worry in response to God only knew what was evident in my own. Just like her hands lightly brushing the tops of my shoulders, her voice was familiar and soft, pitched low enough that only I could hear. It held a quiet serenity that she alone could effect, and somehow, it cut through the hammering beats that threatened to drown out everything else.

For just an instant, a vivid image flashed before my eyes – a single, frozen moment in time that my brain had somehow captured and preserved. It was of me as a young boy, no more than five or six, panicked, dirty, and bleeding after I'd fallen from the ancient red oak in the front yard of our old house near Chicago. Over-eager and not paying attention, I'd climbed too high, chasing a bird or something, missed a footing, and then tumbled to the ground. My knees and elbows took the brunt of the fall and were scraped red and already bruising. The impact had knocked the wind out of me, so my childish cries came out as breathless hiccups, but I was scared more than I was hurt. Like always, however, she was there, kissing away the tears from my cheeks, smoothing back my mess of hair, and soothingly blowing cool air across my cuts to ease the burn.

_One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand_, I counted, closing my eyes, willing some semblance of calm as I dragged air through my nose to fill the empty cavity of my chest. When I inhaled, the sweetness of my mother's perfume – a brand that she'd worn for as long as I was alive – flooded my lungs. It had been so long since I'd smelled that scent – really smelled it, not just in passing – and it, too, was something tangible, a reminder to which my brain and body unwittingly responded.

Ever so slowly, my muscles uncoiled, and the tension faded to something bearable – to some level that at least allowed me to remain standing. Sensing my gradual return, a hand left my shoulder and found the balled fist by my side. Gently, one by one, she pried my fingers apart, and then I felt her grip my hand, firm and sure, an anchor to the present. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that from her – from _anyone_ other than Bella. I couldn't remember the last time I'd _wanted_ to feel that kind of connection.

Swallowing, I opened my eyes to find that my mother's expression, though still taut, had relaxed minutely, no doubt grateful that I hadn't completely lost it. As my mind cleared, taking in our surroundings once more, reality dawned and uncomfortable warmth crept up my neck to my face, forcing my gaze from hers to a spot on the wall over her shoulder.

"Sorry about that," I finally managed. My voice was barely above a whisper, rough and riddled with embarrassment. More than anything in heaven or on earth, I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

As we stood in awkward silence, the clawing underneath my skin returned in full force, reminding me of the one solace that I was denied tonight. With little prompting, there was an imaginary glass in my hand. On my tongue, I could taste oak barrels and grain, and with perfect, vivid clarity, I could feel the way it coated the inside of my mouth and my teeth with each sip. Water or soda could never do that; nothing ever felt like the hot, viscous silk of scotch. I swallowed automatically, imagining its liquid heat sliding down my throat, warming my esophagus inch by inch. I could even feel the familiar, comforting bloom in my stomach when it hit.

I was mistaken. More than anything, right now, even though I couldn't have it, I wanted _that_ – that heat and that burn. I wanted my damned hands to stop shaking and I wanted the utter numbness and disregard that came with it. _So fucking much._

"Did I tell you about my roof garden?" my mother lightly and unexpectedly responded. Immediately, I understood; she was pretending and tossing me a life preserver.

A small, carefully constructed smile was affixed to her face. As close as we were, though, I could see that the upturn of her lips was nothing but a charade. It didn't touch her eyes at all. They were still wide, glassy and pleading. That pleading had nothing to do with me making a scene, however; as reeling and fucked up as I was, I could still discern that much. There was unconcealed sadness there and it wasn't for her. It was sadness for me – close to pity, but far enough away that my typical anger stayed at bay.

When I dared to look again, there was something else there, too. Unnamable, but evident, it was in the permanent line etched across her forehead, in the ever so slight quiver of her lips, and in the pale gray smudges beneath her eyes, now covered by shimmery powder. It reminded me of guilt, and for a moment, the clawing underneath my skin ceased.

_Goddamnit. _

My stomach knotted again because I hated that expression. I hated everything about it – that it was on her face to start with, that it was there not just because of me, but for me, and that I hadn't noticed it before now. A new barrage of self-directed curses screamed through my head, even as simultaneously, some semblance of mysterious resolve straightened my backbone so that I could rid her of it.

"_Look at me," _I heard Bella say in my head. Her voice was as clear as it had been in the parking lot before the wedding, when she'd kissed my mouth and told me the words that clanged in my subconscious. _"You're not alone here, okay? You don't have to do this by yourself." _

I took a deep breath, pretending that I couldn't hear the shakiness of it, and tried my best to approximate a real smile. "I'm all right, Mom. I'm sorry… you just… I wasn't prepared for that kind of question… now," I admitted, ignoring the heat that still flamed my cheeks.

"No, no, my fault," she murmured, squeezing my hand. Again, she smiled up at me as though nothing at all were amiss, as though she hadn't just witnessed her eldest son lose his shit because of a single, simple, and admittedly reasonable question about a woman he'd escorted to his brother's wedding.

No, not just _a_ woman, I corrected – _t__he_ woman. The one who was waiting at our table _for me_. The one who, no doubt, right now was watching the tension in my back and shoulders. The one who I'd just silently confessed I _loved_, even though it scared me senseless and I hadn't a clue what to do with that kind of admittance.

In the background, the band paused and then started up once more. It was another slower number, an old jazz standard that was more my father's taste than Emmett's.

Looking down at crisscrossed parquet tiles, I sighed and then closed my eyes one more time, as if I could physically suppress the exhausting turmoil in my head. This time, instead of an image of my youth, floating across the blackness, I saw Bella. She was standing on her toes so that our faces were close to level. And she grinning at me – grinning _my_ grin.

_Shit._ I wanted to laugh or curse or maybe even cry like a goddamned girl. Because ever since she showed up at my door back in June, nothing made any sense any more. Right was left and black was white. And I was left muddling around, a fucked up emotional basketcase, trying to make sense of it all and to catch up.

"Can we–" I fumbled, like always my mouth running away from me. Grimacing, I dared to look up once more, only to find my mother's delicate brows lifted in surprise. Her eyes softened for some reason, and her smile did, too. "Mom, can we… maybe… try this again?"

**~.~.~**

We danced to two – or maybe it was three – more songs. It was uncomfortable and awkward, though far less so than any interaction I could hope to have with my father. It was like we were two strangers forced into acquaintance. As shameful as it was, in many ways, we were.

But somehow, as the minutes ticked by, things became… easier.

As we swayed, following a slow looping circle, as if she somehow understood, my mother filled the space between us with idle chat, allowing me to just… listen, not expecting a response, not expecting me to reciprocate. With glittering, smiling eyes always fixed on me, she spoke of her life in Seattle, telling me little, inconsequential things that otherwise I'd never have heard in my habitual absence – about her neighbors, the annoying terrier that lived next door that barked at three in the morning, and the thirteen revisions that were made to her rooftop garden to suit the building's board of directors. Her joy was nearly uncontainable when she talked about Emmett and Rose and the little pink swing she bought for the baby.

Hesitantly, or maybe more so, sadly, she even spoke of my father's long hours at the hospital. There was something familiar in the way she spoke of him, a certain avoidance that I couldn't help but note – a sense that she was editing or censoring. For some reason, those little snippets pricked uncomfortably.

Every now and then, over my mother's shoulder, I'd catch a peek of Bella. Like she belonged there, she was smiling and laughing as she hugged Rosalie and playfully smacked Emmett on the shoulder. Even across the room, she was radiant, naturally drawing my focus. When she caught me staring like the idiot I was and smiled, my stomach fluttered with a fit of nerves, even as my head yammered a repeating, _Yes, yes, yes_.

I didn't know anything about how to love her. I didn't know if I could manage anything remotely close to a healthy relationship. God only knew that I'd fuck it up – that I'd drown her in my depths and suffocate her. Deep down, I felt that. I couldn't be what she needed even if I wanted it. I knew that while outwardly she was confident and strong, inside, there were pieces of her that had yet to mend. She needed someone who could hold her up and be strong for her, not the other way around. But of course, like always, the selfish bastard in me cringed at the thought of anything else, naturally recoiling from returning to the existence I suffered before.

An aching sigh built in my chest, stretching my muscles and tendons.

I just… _wanted_ her, in every way, right or wrong. I wanted to talk to her and paint stupid walls with her. I wanted to sit beside her in her too-neat kitchen and eat cake with her and taste chocolate on her lips afterward. I wanted to smell her – to smell her _on_ me. I wanted to touch her everywhere and feel her hands on my skin. I wanted to crawl inside of her and never leave. I wanted her like my body wanted air to breathe.

"What do I do?" I suddenly blurted, my desperation overriding my mortification.

My mother reached up and brushed a stray piece of hair off my forehead. With a soft, knowing smile – as if she knew exactly what I was thinking and admitting, even though I did not – she simply said, "Just… _be_, Edward."

"What does that even mean?" I breathed, knowing but not really.

The grip on my hand tightened. "Don't think about it and don't push her away. Please, _please_ don't deny yourself this. I've seen you with Bella. You're different. You _smile_. Your eyes light up every time you see her. It's… I haven't seen that in so long.

"Just be with her… and be happy. Let yourself have that. You deserve it, son… _so much_." Her voice dropped and her breathing stuttered. "Nothing else matters. It's all I ever want for you."

A lump settled at the base of my throat. Before I could ask anything else, soft, drawn out chords struck, signaling the end of whatever song was playing.

"Ready?" my mother asked, changing topics as she gently pulled me off the floor. She cleared her throat before continuing. "I think I need to check on your brother anyway. You know, make sure everything is okay on their end. Maybe you… maybe you and Bella would like another turn."

As we walked across the dance floor, a louder, faster song started, drowning out everything else. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her sigh and mouth something that looked like 'thank you' before quickly looking away. When she lifted her eyes again, staring straight ahead, there was a certain firmness – a fervor, even – there. Her nails bit through the fabric of my jacket, and so quietly, I could have imagined it, she whispered, "She'll have to love you back…"

My steps faltered and I nearly choked on the breath I'd just taken. I knew Bella cared for me. Against all better judgment, I'd finally accepted that. But that was it. There was no way in hell that I could think about anything beyond, no matter what my own feelings were on the matter. _At all._ It was far too much and far too complicated to even consider, not even in passing, especially not now, not when I was such a fucking mess. If I ventured down that twisty path, I'd surely come apart at the seams.

Even if my brain would have allowed that kind of thinking, however, I didn't have time to process it.

Because as we diverted around a grouping of guests, making our way back to the table, the one sight that I really and truly couldn't handle greeted me, and everything else washed away in an abrupt and instantaneous wave of fury.

Directly in front of me was Bella.

And my father.

Alone at our table.

And while they weren't obvious, from the icy sharpness of her glare and the tightly balled fist resting on the tabletop, I knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that they were arguing.

**~.~.~**

The ride home was absolutely silent.

For exactly twenty-seven minutes, I didn't dare look at Bella. Not once did I turn my head. Instead, I kept my gaze wholly trained in front of me, staring at the streaking double yellow line that cut through the night.

Inside the car, the air was thick and heavy, an almost impossible to breathe concoction of perfume, rain, and barely bridled emotion. This thickness – this tension – was almost an entity of its own, sentient and aware of the acid that raced through my veins and the venom that sat on the tip of my tongue. It shifted when I shifted. It radiated out from me like a visible field and internally, it made my blood pressure skyrocket and my head hammer.

This wasn't the awkward strain from my mother's queries or the anxious greeting from my father outside of the sanctuary. This wasn't the pressure of fear or of not knowing my lot or place. No, this was something known. This was something that was _almost_ comfortable, because if I knew how to be anything at all, I knew how to be angry.

Which was why I had to keep my fucking mouth shut.

If I couldn't bear to look at her, I certainly didn't trust myself to speak. I was far, far too angry – unreservedly livid – to even know where to begin. All I really knew was that if I started, there was no predicting what would come out of my mouth, other than that it would be words I'd later regret. And I couldn't allow myself to unleash on her. That would be unforgivable.

So for those twenty-seven minutes, we drove in silence, a tense stillness only broken by the rapid tick-tock of the wiper blades sweeping away drizzle from the windshield. And for once, I was actually grateful for the darkness because it hid the hateful glare that I had no hope of suppressing, as I revisited those last few minutes over and over.

As soon as I'd seen Bella and my father together – _arguing_ – a fear that I had never even contemplated came to life and grabbed hold of every part of me, immediately twisting me into a mass of writhing dread and inconsolable fury. I didn't have to know the words he'd said. There was no need to ask or to accuse. Their expressions told me everything I'd needed to know.

It was one thing for my father to address me, to beat me down, and to shove all the things I'd done wrong over the years in my face – I deserved it and accepted it. But it was something else altogether when it came to her. What he'd told Bella, I couldn't even guess, but the list was long, and none of it was good. I could only assume that he was trying to chase her away as some form of punishment for my years of transgressions. Because fuck, it wasn't like I hadn't had enough of that already. And it wasn't like I needed his help in driving this woman away. I'd manage that on my own eventually.

But it made me angry – so fucking angry. At least in some way, for right now, Bella was mine, and he was trying to take that away from me. For the first time in years, after day after relentless day of desolation and loneliness, I felt some semblance – some sliver – of happiness, some small moment of peace. Every now and then I felt needed, like I wasn't some massive failure at life. I could forget without constantly falling into a bottle, and when it was just Bella and me, I felt alive again. And my own goddamned father wanted to ruin it.

Saying that I was merely angry would have been a lie. There was something else there, too – something deeper that cut and hurt. But I wanted none of that right now. No, right now I wanted to hit something – to hit him. I wanted to scream curses in his face and tell him exactly what I thought of him. I wanted to tell him to leave me the fuck alone.

Somehow, by some mercy, at the reception, I'd done none of that.

As soon as Bella had seen me approaching – or more likely had seen the murderous expression I'd no doubt worn – she was on her feet, flying toward me. The sharp furrow of her brow and hard press of her lips vanished, and she was smiling as though nothing at all had occurred. As much as she tried to hide it, however, I saw the flicker of panic in her eyes, giving away her fear that I'd wreck things just as I had at my father's birthday party.

All I remembered after that was the sudden sensation of Bella's hand squeezing mine so tightly that my knuckles popped and then the countering softness of her lips pressed just below my ear as she whispered some urgent excuse about wanting to leave. Through gritted teeth, I'd managed to say goodbye to my mother, and I vaguely remembered seeing my father from feet away, looking at me with a curious, confused expression. But really, it was all a hazy, red-tinted blur that muted the details.

It was like I blinked, and then Bella and I were suddenly here in the car. If I were completely honest, I wanted to yell at her and thank her all at once for dragging me away before I had the chance to really react and make a scene.

"Will you come in for a minute?" Her voice was the softest silk, no more than a whisper.

Mutely, fingers motionless and curled around the steering wheel, I stared at the bright red rectangle of her door, surprised that we were already home. I couldn't seem to recall flipping the turn signal for her driveway.

Still not trusting my voice, I nodded, accepting, because as much as I didn't want to discuss what had happened and what was said, the alternative was intolerable. Not knowing would kill me, and there was no question in my mind what would happen were I to leave her now and go home. There was an oak cabinet calling my name.

Dimly, I realized that over the course of the drive home, some of my anger had waned, having slowly morphed into a noose of bitter resignation that cinched tighter with each mile. Those stabs of hurt that I'd ignored earlier seemed to multiply, forcing me to acknowledge them by salting my eyes. Maybe it was betrayal I felt or maybe something else entirely. Either way, my jaw rolled back and forth, as if that motion would fend off the sting of emotions I didn't want to feel. Nevertheless, civility was something that I wasn't sure was in my grasp. And once we were inside her house, awkwardly standing across from each other in her living room, neither of us seemed to know what to do or what the next steps were.

I was a wreck and I was dead tired, and my shoulders were folding from a weight I wasn't sure they could heft.

"I'm sorry, Edward."

Immediately, I looked up, not understanding her words at all. As soon as our gaze met, I almost crumpled to the floor because there were dark smudges of mascara beneath her eyes and pale gray tracks where silent tears had streamed down her face in the darkness of the car. And now she wore the same expression I'd seen that night when she'd showed up at my house after she'd fought with her sister. Only this time, it was there because of me. Because I'd been fooling myself thinking that I could hide who I was from her. Because she was finally seeing.

"I'm sorry," she repeated in a small voice that I'd never heard before.

"Fuck." Roughly, I yanked my tie loose and dry washed my face. Looking away, I sighed dejectedly. "Just… what did he say, Bella? What did he tell you?"

"What?"

"What the hell did he say to you?" Unable to face her and talk to her, too, I turned and stared a hole through the toffee colored walls. When I spoke, my voice was shaky and broken, but with each admission, it rose in volume and in strength, driven by anger and shame and remorse all snarled up together so intricately that I could no longer discern one from the other.

"Let me guess… Did he tell you how I shattered nearly every picture in the house when I came home from the hospital? Or about when I choked down one too many vicodin and ended up tearing my own stitches out when I fell down the stairs headfirst? Or what about the night two years ago when I yelled at my mom and tried to punch my brother because they wouldn't stop shoving therapists' business cards down my throat? Did he tell you what I said to them? I don't even remember anymore."

It was like a slideshow of my life, of the past four years, and I couldn't stop.

Bitterly, I spat, "Or maybe, was it about how when they moved out, after I signed the papers to buy the house, I drank so much that my stomach had to be pumped and they had to put me in the hospital? That was a good night. I'm sure he was _so_ proud.

"Or what about how I failed to show up at all last Christmas because I was so blacked out I didn't even realize what day of the week it was? Or was it… _fuck…"_

"Edward?"

My fingers dug into the back of her sofa, searching for some kind of grounding, seeking something that could support the weight that my shoulders could not. "He's right, you know," I went on, incapable of reining myself in, lost in my rant. "I'm sure he didn't lie to you. That's not what he does. Hell, there's no need, not when I've supplied him with enough ammunition for a lifetime of guilt trips and bullshit. I could never do a damned thing again, but it wouldn't even matter."

Fire shot down my spine, and my body trembled for an outlet for the pent up aggression. "But he had no right," I rasped. "He can't talk to you like that. It's none of his goddamned business! I mean, it's not like I need his fucking help to chase you away!" Incapable of stopping myself, my fist smacked against the cushion, even as my eyes burned. "Just fucking tell me, Bella! Did he tell you to leave me? Did he tell you I wasn't worth the time? That you were better off–"

"Stop it," was all she said, still so softly. Stop yelling, stop talking, or stop standing there and get the fuck out, I wasn't sure, but it shut my mouth.

"I think you…" She hesitated. "I think that you have it backward, Edward."

Incredulous and not following at all, I spun on my heel and blurted, "Come again?"

"You're asking the wrong question," Bella whispered. Her throat bobbed and she stared down at her dress. Fresh tears streaked down her face and pink flooded her cheeks. When she looked back up, her lips were mashed together into such a hard line and her eyes were endlessly dark, churning with unspoken thoughts.

I didn't understand her at all and my head throbbed in accord.

"He didn't say anything. Not really."

"Then…what was–"

Words tumbled out, so fast and so jumbled, I could hardly follow. "I didn't give him a chance. I'm… sorry. It wasn't my place. I just… Rose told me about… I don't think your father has any idea how deeply he's hurt you. This–" She waved a hand at me, and I watched her face contort. When her lips quivered, my chest constricted, snapping like a bullwhip at the tell that I recognized instantly as a captured sob. "The way you see yourself, what's happened to you… since… with them… and the things that he's said to you and done to you… I just couldn't… _stand it._"

"Wait," I mumbled, as I tried to piece together what she was saying with what I assumed. "I don't understand."

A second passed, and then I _did_ understand.

"You mean, he didn't… _Why?_" I breathed. It came out more like a gasp and automatically, as if my feet moved of their own volition, I took a step toward her.

"What do you mean why?"

I took another step and then another, until there was no more than a foot of space between us. "Why would you…"

Her brows pinched as if now she were the one not understanding. "Defend you? Take your side?"

"Yeah," I whispered. All of my anger bled out of me, seeping away and leaving my bones weak and jelly-like. I was stunned that I could still stand.

"Because I am… if there have to be sides, even when you screw up…" She paused, staring up at me with affection I had no right to claim. "I'm _always_ on yours."

That foot between us was too much, too far. Everything from tonight – the stress, the anxiety, the flood of warmth I felt for this woman for which I now had a name – came crashing down like toppling waves, shattering every bit of restraint I had left in me.

Without thinking, I pulled her flush against me. Bella's eyes shot wide and there was a surprised punch of air, but I didn't care and I didn't pause. Instead, my mouth descended on hers and I kissed her hard, much harder and far more demanding than I'd ever allowed. Desperation and years of unloosed hunger poured out from me, forcing my fingers into her hair so that she could never escape, so that I'd never have to know what it felt like to not feel her.

And she _melted_ into me, returning every bit of what I gave.

Minutes passed like that, and our hands were suddenly everywhere. One second, her arms were locked around my neck and the next, they were sliding down to my torso. Slender fingers walked down the placket of my shirt, unfastening the stays with surprising deftness. When I felt her palms sneak underneath my undershirt and flatten against my bare stomach, the muscles there rippled and heat spread, sending me headlong and reeling into a thick fog of mingled lust and love and need.

Everything around us blurred, and inside of my chest, my heart thumped against my ribcage for her, racing and demanding more. So inundated, I barely noticed my jacket and dress shirt peeling down my shoulders, landing on the floor somewhere below. Before I could blink, cool air hit my skin and the white cloud of my undershirt floated over my face.

Wet and sliding around mine, her tongue was once more in my mouth and then mine was in hers. Again and again, over and over, frantically, our lips met and parted. When she pulled away to breathe, unwilling to move my mouth from her body, I kissed down her throat in sloppy, open mouth kisses, dragging my lips roughly along her skin, tasting sweetness and salt and just a hint of bitter perfume.

"I'm sorry… I yelled at you. I just thought…" I breathed, pressing my lips to base of her throat. "I made you cry. I suck at this, Bella. I'm sorry."

"No, you don't. It's okay. You didn't know," she gasped, moaning softy as I sucked on her skin, no doubt leaving marks that wouldn't fade for days. "I shouldn't have said anything to your dad–"

There was a muffled thump of Bella's back hitting the wall that briefly brought me back into the present. I hadn't even realized that we'd been moving. But the second I felt her thighs grab and circle my waist I was lost once more, because she was running her teeth along my jaw, kissing her way back to my mouth. When I looked down, her dress was bunched up, midnight blue riding high almost to her hips, and she was right fucking _there_.

"Don't care about that," I muttered, half groaning because her weight was against me, and my hands were wrapped around her thighs, kneading and impatiently inching upward. "I don't care at all."

She was so soft and she felt so goddamned _good_ in my hands. I couldn't remember ever being with a woman like this, needing to just… touch, to have my hands on her body, to have her possess me like this. When Bella shifted her hips, rocking against me, my whole body jerked, and I felt like a damned teenager, like I could come just from that motion alone.

_Please_, I begged silently, wanting nothing more than to be inside of her, thinking that I would die if I couldn't.

"Upstairs," was her response, as if she'd somehow heard my inner cry. The utter need and ache in her tone, mimicking my own, rendered my normal inner voice of doubt and self-hatred entirely mute and banished. I was far, far too gone to even consider denying her. Nothing, _nothing_ else mattered.

Somehow we made it up the stairs, and by the time we stepped across the threshold of her bedroom, her sweater had disappeared and I was already pulling on the tab of her zipper. Blue silk fell into a dark puddle at her feet, and then she was in my arms again, wearing nothing but nude lace, leaving absolutely _nothing_ to my imagination. Licking my lips, I realized that the real thing was so much better. The images I'd conjured in the shower were bland and colorless, nothing compared to _this_.

"Fuck," I cursed, closing my eyes and trying to stop myself from stripping her down too quickly.

There was a sharp tug at my waist, and the buckle of my belt clanged loudly in the silence of the room. Garment by garment, the remainder of our clothes vanished until there was nothing but skin on skin. Eager and nearly drunk, my gaze raked down her body, greedily taking in and memorizing the supple curves that I'd only fantasized seeing.

"Edward," she whimpered, as I palmed her bare breasts, grazing her nipples with the flats of my palms. When I took her breast into my mouth, suckling and teasing with my tongue until her nipple was hard, she said my name again, this time louder, almost a whine. The sound of my name spilling from Bella's lips in that way was like a direct line, electric and zinging, to my lower half.

The backs of her knees hit the mattress. Eyes never leaving mine, she backed up the bed, dragging me with her until I was on top of her, settled between her thighs, hard and wanting and pressed so tightly against damp heat. Her breathing was harsh and shallow, lifting her breasts against me and beneath me, dark against the stark white of her bedding, her hair fanned out like a halo.

_Please_, I repeated, my mind on a continuous circuit of _her._

I swallowed and fisted the sheets, fighting the urge to thrust and bury myself. "I– do you want me to wear a condom?" I asked, stuttering as she arched into me, taking me just inside. I didn't care. All too clearly, I remembered what Bella had told me on the dock in Seattle – that pregnancy was no longer an option for her. It didn't even occur to me to question health or anything else. But even in my cloud of wonder and lust, I wouldn't dare make the same assumption for her. I just hoped to God she had something because the single that I'd never bothered to take out of my wallet was long since out of date.

For a single, hushed minute, Bella looked up at me, liquid eyes boring into mine, and I could see a hint of sadness just below the surface that made my heart hurt. Quietly, she murmured, running her fingers down my face, scratching gently with her nails, "I haven't since… I _trust_ you."

My chest swelled, aching at hearing other, unspoken words simmering there, ones I knew that I had no business wanting but did anyway. Incapable of answering in any articulate manner, I could only nod.

Slowly, purposefully, I curled my arms under hers, gripping the tops of her shoulders.

And then I was _home,_ wrapped in sublime heat that constricted around me like a vise. When I was finally all the way inside, for just a moment, I couldn't even breathe and I was sure that my eyes rolled back in my head. Against my neck, I felt Bella exhale, shaky and soft, and the sound of it made my hips pull back and push in again.

"Goddamn, Bella…just _goddamn_," I panted, sliding out and thrusting again and again. "I'm… fuck… I'm not going to last long." I hated admitting it, but it was the truth. Years of disinterest and abstinence wouldn't allow for anything else right now, especially with the damned near sinful ways her body accepted mine. "Please, _please_ tell me what you need. I need you to feel good."

Without speaking, instead latching her mouth on mine, Bella guided one of my hands down to the apex of her thighs, showing me my answer. When I stroked her there, rubbing in small circles, I could feel myself gliding against my own fingers as I slid in and out. It was erotic and carnal, and hearing her sigh and watching her squirm beneath me nearly stole my sanity.

My hips burned from unpracticed movement, and I knew that I'd be stiff in the morning, but it didn't matter. All I could think of was the way she felt around me, the bite of her nails, digging into my back, the breathy moans, and the heady scent of sex and sweat that filled the room. For as long as I could hold off, I drove into her, still touching her until I felt her muscles begin to flutter around me. When she came, groaning my name and shuddering hard beneath me, I thanked God, because no more than a handful of thrusts later, I spilled inside of her, shaking and jerking with a relief I couldn't begin to describe.

For a long, quiet moment, we lay there, covered in cool, white cotton, panting and motionless, neither of us willing to pull away. I kissed her again, wanting so much to tell her what she meant to me, to tell her that she was everything and my sole reason for any happiness I ever felt. But I was a coward. I couldn't, not now. I couldn't risk ruining whatever it was we had right now with that kind of admission. So I kept silent and just kissed her more, deeper, holding onto her and praying that she just… _knew_.

Eventually, despising that it was necessary, I rolled to Bella's side and gathered her close against me, her back to my chest. Burying my face in fragrant, now damp hair, I breathed, deeply and fully, finally feeling what I could only call satisfaction and contentment.

Maybe an hour passed, or maybe more, as we drifted in and out of lazy, contented, shallow sleep. From the blackness of the window and the pale white strips of moonlight outlining the curtain, I simply knew that it was still dark outside, that dawn had yet to break.

Idly, I ran the tips of my fingers down her arm, to her hip, and then up her stomach to cup her breast. When I circled her nipple, it hardened, and I realized that I wasn't the only one awake. Against my chest, I felt her back swell and contract, and her hips shifted into me.

Like the addict I was, I immediately wanted to be inside of her again.

"Are you awake?" Bella murmured, turning on her back to face me. She looked up at me and her eyes were alive and bright, a certain mirror of mine.

My face split into a stupid grin when I saw hers. "Yeah."

"Tired?"

I laughed because I was. "Not at all."

This time, I rolled us so that she was on top. And this time, we moved slowly, languidly almost and in no hurry to be done. The urgency and frantic need from before gave way to something softer and more sensual. She laced her fingers between mine and stared down at me with parted lips while she rode me. It was intimate and it made my heart stutter. And fuck if watching her come undone above me like that wasn't the most arousing thing I'd ever seen.

Afterward, Bella collapsed down on my chest and turned her face into the crook of my neck. Our fingers were still threaded together, splayed out across the pillow, and when I turned my head, my breath caught in my throat.

For the first time since I'd known her, I finally, _really_ saw the long mark on her wrist. A few times, I'd seen shadows peeking from beneath her shirts and I'd caught a fleeting glimpse of it when we'd fallen into bed. But now, unobstructed and still, I could see its full length. The skin there was raised up. It was smoother than the surrounding skin and it was pale and discolored, shining ever so slightly in the lamplight.

It made me want to vomit. It made me angry. But more than any of that, it scared me. It scared the life out of me knowing that maybe not now, but at least at one point not so long ago, she'd wanted and tried to end the very life I loved, the very life I needed. The thought of her not breathing was intolerable, so wrong in every possible way, and inside, I was instantly writhing and coming unglued. My mind stammered, _Just… no. Never. _

It was all I could do not to shake her and demand that she tell me she wouldn't _ever _do that again. I needed to know that. _Especially now._ I needed Bella to promise me. And beyond that, I wanted her to know that I could be something for her – that I could handle her shit just like she could handle mine. I wanted to _know_ her, like she knew me.

Tentatively, my heart fully in my throat, I brought her wrist to my lips to kiss the three-inch long scar. The moment she realized what I was doing, I felt her tremble, and her whole body stiffened in alarm.

"Tell me," I whispered. "Please."

.

.

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**A/N: **For those keeping track, it's _still_ Saturday, Oct. 9. Well, Sunday, Oct. 10, I suppose, there at the end.

Regarding the above-mentioned "old house near Chicago", recall that the Cullens didn't move to Forks until Edward was in HS. You can infer they lived near Chicago beforehand. It's not an important detail, but I thought I'd mention it just in case anyone went "Huh?" when they read that line.

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**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _The Sun is Shining Down, _by J. J. Grey and Mofro [Note: if you haven't ever listened to this song, look it up. It's absolutely beautiful.]


	33. I Wish That I Could Carry Her

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

What can I say that's not been said? Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for everything you do.

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_**I Wish That I Could Carry Her**_

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There was a sharp puff of expelled air, and then the room fell silent. Still draped across my chest, Bella's entire body was locked and tense, her muscles stretched taut like piano wires pulled too tightly, just on the verge of snapping. So close, I could feel everything – the shiver that rippled down her spine, the bob of her throat when she swallowed, the involuntary squeeze of her fingers around mine.

The white-faced clock on the far wall was the only evidence of the passage of time. Its long, black hands moved so very slowly, ticking off the seconds with quiet clucks that were anything but quiet. Instead, they were loud and intrusive, somehow amplifying the silence. And it was a painful kind of stillness that surrounded us, too, a harsh, brittle one that I could actually feel in my bones and taste on my tongue. It seemed like one wrong word could shatter us both.

Thirty seconds passed like this, then a minute, and then two.

Yet for all of this, I couldn't bring myself to regret my query, even though my insides knotted and twisted like never before. I couldn't let her know that – that I was scared to death of both knowing and not knowing – so for what felt like an age, I neither moved nor spoke. Suppressing the nausea by determination alone, I simply closed my eyes and waited, instinctively knowing that Bella needed this time to process and to grasp exactly what I was asking – to decide if she was even willing to answer. But in that time, I didn't let her go either, fearing her flight more than all else. I held on to her, never relaxing my grip on her small hand or the position of my palm resting in the dip of her lower back.

I was asking to know the worst parts of her and I knew that I'd probably overstepped my bounds in doing so. Just because Bella knew my secrets gave me no right to hers. Yet silently, with a desperation that stunned me, I still pleaded, willing her to finally confide something in me and to loose her demons – willing her to trust that I could hold her up and wouldn't run away. Because I wouldn't. Not from her and not from this.

Finally, as the second hand rounded twelve a third time, I felt Bella shift, and relief colored my sight and unlocked my aching limbs. Against mine, almost in tandem with my own breathing, her chest expanded, and I heard the rush of her inhaling in the crook of my neck. As she exhaled warm air against my skin, her body sagged, finally breaking. Slowly and deeply, as if she were counting or timing her lungs' capacity, she inhaled once more before softly sighing. Hearing that little sound, that signal that she'd decided on… _something_, it was all I could do to bite back my own echoing sigh.

I wasn't prepared when Bella shifted again, moving to roll off of me. And as quickly as it appeared, my moment of reprieve was replaced by rapid-fire panic that jumpstarted my heart. Immediately, unwilling to let her go, my shoulder tensed and my arm automatically tightened around her ribcage. "Don't," I whispered, pressing my lips to her forehead. "Please, don't go."

"I'm not," Bella murmured, her voice even softer than mine. As she spoke, her lips moved against the still damp skin of my neck. "I just need a little space to do this."

As she settled on her side facing me, I turned on mine. The mark that I'd kissed was out of sight, intentionally or not, I wasn't sure. Both hands were folded together in a prayer's pose, resting between her cheek and the pillow. The soft yellow light from the lamp behind her threw shadows across her cheeks, and her once sparkling eyes were now flat and too dark. For once, Bella looked older than her years, tired and worn from life, and the way she stared at my chest instead of my face stabbed me in the gut.

She just looked so… _small_ – so vulnerable and bare. The sight of her like this… it made me ache everywhere. For once, the normal churn of my self-involved thoughts stilled. Instead, all I could think about was the woman in front me, curled up in a loose fetal position and unable to meet my gaze. There was no part of me that was unaffected, no part of me that didn't want to steal the hurt that lurked there, most of the time hidden, but now so evident and so clear. It was written in every line and every crease. It was the failed attempt at a sad smile and it was the inward curve of her shoulders.

More than anything I'd ever seen or witnessed, more than anything I'd ever felt for myself, I hated her pain. It was just so _wrong_ and I despised it with every fiber of my being. There was _nothing_ I wouldn't happily give to banish it.

Bella licked her lips, hesitating for a moment. "What do you want to know?"

I swallowed and then gently pulled the sheet up over her shoulder, tucking it underneath her chin. Like she'd done so many times for me, I combed my fingers through the tangles of her hair and smoothed them away from her face. Lightly trailing my fingertips across her cheek, I waited until her eyes met mine. "You," I breathed. "Anything you'll tell me… everything."

The corner of her mouth turned up in a reluctant smile and she huffed a little. "You knew before tonight, didn't you?"

She didn't have to say what it was that I knew. The word that my coward self could barely even think seemed ring in the air, unspoken but so fucking loud that my eardrums felt like they would explode.

As much as I wanted to, anticipating rightful anger at my omission, I couldn't lie to her now. Silently spitting a line of curses, I looked down at the white span between us, staring at the tightly woven threads and the tiny patterned squares they formed.

"Alice?" Bella guessed when I didn't answer quickly enough.

"Some," I admitted, nodding and risking a glance. "That night at your house after dinner. You… went to feed Garrett."

"What did she say?"

"Little. Too little…" I grimaced, recalling her sister's words all too well. "She said that you and James… that the baby wasn't really planned… that you weren't happy, but you wouldn't leave. Alice… she wasn't exactly sure why… maybe that you wanted… Ja–… your baby to have a father there."

Bella's mouth formed a grim line, giving away virtually nothing.

"She told me how much you loved him. How… how he was everything you'd ever wanted." Her eyes closed for a second, and I knew that she was remembering. I wondered what she saw, what image crossed her mind. "And that when he got sick…" I paused, trying to gather the resolve to stomach the words. "How much it hurt you when he… died."

"What else?" she asked quietly, still not opening her eyes.

I could barely force out the rest. My mouth didn't want to cooperate. It felt as though I were spouting blasphemy of the worst kind. "She said that you almost died, too, that you wanted to… and that you were in a hospital for a while afterward."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. She didn't have to say much more. I put the rest together."

"I'm surprised she didn't say more." Her eyes opened and there was a hint of wetness there, gleaming in the lamplight. So softly I barely heard, she whispered, "I wasn't deliberately trying to keep things from you. I just… don't like remembering."

I didn't know what to say, if there was anything I could say.

"I was… sick. Very sick. I know that now."

"You tried to kill yourself." It was half-statement and half-question, and I regretted my bluntness before my mouth even closed. That bubble of mixed fear and anger expanded in my stomach, pressing against my ribs. Part of me wanted her to deny it. I wanted her to say that Alice had been wrong, that the long line of marred flesh on the inside of her wrist was nothing but a lie, that everything was just some misunderstanding. I wanted it, even as I knew it wasn't true.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and the inches between us could have very well been a mile. Anxiously, I watched as her gaze flitted past me to the same clock on the wall.

"Yes," she finally whispered.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _My mind screamed at me unintelligibly, and for a split second, mingled in with the scent of perfume and sex, the remembered scent of copper and salt assaulted my senses. I was left reeling from the sudden onslaught, stunned how one little word, spoken so plainly and so honestly, could feel like a fist to the jaw.

Oblivious to the turmoil inside of me, she started speaking, launching into the very answers for which I'd asked.

"I think I told you about James, right?" All I could do was nod stupidly, still lost in the pain of that _yes_.

"We were such a _mistake_. From day one. I was so dumb and young and I just couldn't see anything in front of me. I've been thinking about some things lately. I didn't love him. In all that time, not really. I get that now. And I don't think that he ever loved me. He loved the idea of me. And I loved the idea of marriage and forever.

"But it didn't last. Like I told you before, we both had all of these expectations. And over time, our marriage just started falling apart, bit by bit, day by day. Nothing I did was what he wanted and I'd never felt so trapped in all of my life. I'd given up school and a career just so that I could be his… arm candy." A certain coldness crept across her face, turning her features hard. "I spent day after day inside the house, bored out of my mind. Our friends were his friends. The only people I really had to talk to were Alice and my mom. Alice got it. My mom didn't."

My eyes widened. Bella so rarely spoke of her mother, and most of those times were only in passing. I immediately understood, and empathy borne of so many nights of fights and curses and weighted judgment washed through me. All too well, I recognized that mesh of bitterness and disappointment, that sting of betrayal that only a parent could inflict. It was what I hid from, what I disguised with callous words and self-imposed absence. I could admit that. Silently, in my head, I could acknowledge the hollowness that sat beneath my anger.

"My mom–, she's… different than me," Bella explained. "Sometimes I wonder if she grew up in the 1930s instead of the 1960s. I don't know, she's one of those who think that it's important for a woman to have a good husband and a family, that you're incomplete without that. Never mind that she was the one who left my dad when I was young. Hypocrisy is one of her many talents.

"But she bought into the idea of James, and more so, what he could provide for me." A deep furrow appeared between her brows and her lips turned down in disgust. "I remember trying to tell her I wasn't happy, that I didn't love him anymore. She just said… 'Suck it up, that's what we women do.' It's insane, isn't it?"

I blinked and there was an image of my mother, the way she was then and the way she was now. Beneath the sheet, my fist balled, squeezing as tightly as my tendons would allow.

Bella sighed and went on, "But it was enough that every time I thought about leaving James, my stomach ached. I didn't know what I'd do, where I'd go, how I'd make a living. All of our finances were tied to him. Hell, I didn't have anything that wasn't tied to James in some way. So I just… stayed, thinking that I could fix things, that we'd figure things out. I hate myself sometimes for that – for being so naïve."

I murmured a response, more for myself than for her. "You didn't know."

"You know, Alice begged me to come up to San Francisco. Things would be different if I had. But she was just getting started in her job back then, and I couldn't stand the idea of being a burden to her. She was in a one bedroom, working all hours, and traveling constantly anyway. It was just a bad time. And… I was ashamed – ashamed that I'd rushed into a loveless marriage, that I'd quit graduate school _for a guy_." There was a short, forced laugh, and her eyes rolled. "I was ashamed that every time I talked to my mom, I'd immediately put away the suitcase I'd just packed.

"So I just… stayed. I don't know why. I just did because I couldn't seem to do anything else. It wasn't like James was physically abusive or anything like that. We just weren't right. At all."

Bella was silent again, staring past me somewhere, and in her expression, I could see the wheels turning and that she was gathering herself to continue, knowing the hardest parts were yet to come. Each second that passed made my skin crawl.

"What happened?" I asked, moderating my voice to hide the shakiness of it.

One hand snuck from beneath her cheek to hold onto the sheet, clutching it tightly inside her fist. My teeth clamped together when I saw the mark along her wrist again, but this time she made no move to hide it. It was like a magnet, drawing my focus, even though it made me sick.

"There was this function one night – a dinner and fundraiser. It was a big deal for him. His firm was looking to promote someone, and he needed me to play my part. I wasn't happy about it, but I agreed, thinking that maybe it would be something that we could do together and maybe have some fun. I thought that maybe it could be like it used to be between us."

Bella's chin dipped down, tilting her face away from mine as she continued, "It was a good night. I'm not sure what it was or how. Maybe it was the champagne or the lights or something, but it was… almost _fun_. I remember some guy flirting with me at the bar, not realizing that I was married. James came over to claim me, jealousy evident, and there was something in his eye, something in the way he looked at me. It reminded me of how we once were, before we drifted apart. Maybe there was something in mine, too. I don't know.

"He was charming and attentive, reminding me so much of how he was when we met. When we got home, things just… happened." She snorted and shook her head as if in disbelief. "For the first time in _months_."

A pulse of unfounded jealousy, heated and angry, coursed through my veins. Even beneath its assault, I knew that it was ridiculous and immature, and I was mortified that I felt anything so selfish. But the idea of someone else touching her in the same way that I had only an hour before sat poorly with me. It felt like sharp, hot needles digging into my skin. It made me want to find James and tear him apart. Knowing what a fool I was, however, I smartly kept my mouth shut. Mutely asking her to continue, I was reduced to nodding again.

If Bella noticed the flush of my skin or my lack of speech, she didn't acknowledge it. Bitterness again riddled her tone. "Of course, after that, things went right back to where they were. It was like a switch. We woke up the next morning, and it was like there was a stranger in bed next to me. He didn't even speak. He just got up and I didn't see him again until the next day. After his car pulled out of the driveway, I remember looking in the mirror, seeing my makeup smeared and faded and thinking that this was it – that there was nothing left."

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. "But that one night was enough. I didn't tell James until I was twelve weeks. It wasn't like he noticed. By that point, he wasn't home very much anyway.

"He was absolutely livid. Honestly, I think he was planning to divorce me. I'd assumed that he was having an affair. Sometimes I smelled her perfume when he came home at night. You know, I think that he's actually still with her. Victoria something. I'm guessing they will get married, if they aren't already." Bella's face turned toward me. There was unexpected amusement there at the corners of her mouth. "Funny enough, she's the opposite of everything he said he wanted me to be. She actually makes more money than he does."

I glared at the mattress because I didn't find anything remotely funny about Bella being left alone and pregnant while her ex-husband fucked around with some whore. James was a fucking moron for not realizing what he had, and for the second time tonight, I wanted to clean his clock, this time on her behalf, not mine.

"I'd like to beat the fuck out of him for that," I muttered, incapable of hiding that particular emotion. "I mean that. I would."

Bella stared up at the ceiling again and I watched her slowly blink. The sheet covering her rose and fell with her breaths. I'd have been blind not to see the slight tremble in the movement, too, and it shook me.

Softly, she started once more, "James was… absent during most of my pregnancy. Which was fine, really. Even though he never said it out loud, I knew that he hated the idea that I was having his child. It tied me to him far more permanently than the piece of paper we signed on our wedding day.

"He didn't leave, though. God only knew that it just wouldn't do for him to leave his pregnant wife. In the beginning, we fought for days. He wanted me to have an abortion. But I refused. I thought about it, sure. I read the literature. I talked to Alice. But when it came down to it, I just… _couldn't._

"I wish I had." A tear slid down her temple, dotting the white sheet gray. "What my son suffered was… worse. So much worse. I could have saved him from that."

I didn't move, allowing her the space she'd requested, but every cell in me was writhing, wanting to wrap around her and never let her go. I wanted to hold her until these memories no longer hurt, even if that was nothing more than wishful thinking. Lying beside her like this, close but too far, made me feel useless, powerless to stop what now resided only in her head.

This was pain I recognized so, _so_ well. I _knew_ this kind of grief – the ever-present sense of self-blame, regret, and emptiness. I knew the way it ebbed and flowed, coming and going, but never leaving for good, always returning with its sharp blades. It was the pain that wracked her body that night on her steps, only now, even less concealed. And in so many ways, it was a mirror of what forced me to my knees in the shower whenever I thought too much, when I replayed the last words I'd heard my sister scream. I knew this pain's subtle nuances and the way it burrowed under skin, latching onto bone. It was biting and vicious, still so raw, no matter how much time passed.

I forced myself to ask, "Why didn't you leave then?"

She took a deep breath and wiped another fallen tear from her cheek. "I don't know. I was stupid. And I still clung to some idiotic notion that I wanted my son to have both parents around. I never had that. I thought that once James saw him, once he held him… at least he could love him, if not me.

"And for a while, when we took James, Jr. home, things were… a little better. James and I weren't close, but he loved his son. In his own way, I guess. I think he even stopped seeing Victoria for a while."

A choked sob stopped her there and nearly stole my sanity. One hand came up and covered her mouth and she just started shaking. I could hear her teeth clack together and I could feel the mattress moving with her tremors. My own eyes watered and I grabbed her hand, incapable of just laying there and doing nothing. When I tried to pull her to me, she shook her head, but at least she didn't let go, instead threading her fingers between mine.

"He was everything to me, Edward," she whispered, her voice ragged. She closed her eyes, ignoring the silent tears that leaked from the corners. "_Everything_. He was the reason I got up in the morning – the reason that I did anything. The moment he took his first breath of air, my whole world shifted and immediately revolved around him. Some nights, I'd stay awake just so that I could watch him sleep, just so that I could hear his soft murmurs. He was mine, my son, and I loved him so much. More than anything else. So much it hurt sometimes.

"I can still remember the way his little fingers curled around mine. When I close my eyes at night, I can still see him looking up at me from his crib, the smile when I picked him up. Sometimes, I can still _smell_ him. I used to love that, the way he smelled. It was perfect, like sweet powder and sunshine. I'll never forget that as long as I live."

Clearing her throat, she glanced over to me for just a second. I wasn't sure what she saw in my face, because frankly, I could barely think. Squeezing my hand, she exhaled. "The first eight weeks were fine. He was normal – small, but it wasn't that surprising because of me. There wasn't any single thing that told me something was wrong. He was my perfect boy, in every single way. I just had no idea…

"One night when I got up to feed him, he wouldn't take his bottle. It was like his little mouth just couldn't… His whole body was too limp, just lying there in my arms. I knew something was wrong. I don't know… I thought that maybe he was just sick, like a stomach bug. He just wasn't behaving right, and then he started crying. It was so loud and so painful. He cried until he was hoarse and could barely breathe. I didn't know what to do. I tried to feed him. I rocked him. I did everything I could think of.

"At six in the morning, he was still crying and he started throwing up. Everything. When I called our pediatrician at his home, he said to take him to the emergency room. Less than fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into the hospital parking lot. But it was such a nightmare there. There had been this bad accident on I-10 with a lot of cars, and on top of that, it was the weekend. So we waited for hours. They just thought he was colicky and that I was just another overcautious new mother. They sent us home with some Pedialyte."

My ribcage felt as though it were peeling apart. The knots in my stomach did nothing but multiply with every word she spoke. My imagination had done nothing to prepare me, not for the words, but for how they were spoken – for the way some were delivered with clinical detachment and others with anguish. The detachment made my heart throb the most because I saw through the front of the coping mechanism. Again, something I knew too well.

Gently, I squeezed her hand and stopped her, just managing past the salty lump in my throat. "Bella?"

She looked over at me, and the sorrow there in her wet eyes made me want to weep. "I'm fine, Edward. _Really, _I am. It's okay. But… thank you…"

"For what?" I breathed, not understanding how she could even begin to say that she was fine.

She smiled, but there was no happiness there. "For wanting to know. For caring enough to ask. I'm… glad you did."

"You don't have to keep going."

Shaking her head, she wrapped her free hand around our twined ones and brought them to rest on her stomach beneath the sheet. The skin there was soft, and underneath I could feel the way her abdominal muscles flexed and tensed.

"I want to. I want you to _know_ me, just like… I want to know you."

A few minutes later, she started again, stopping every now and then to breathe and to allow the tears to slow.

"He just… wouldn't get better. Instead, he seemed to get a little worse every day. We saw so many doctors. And the tests they ran… so many for so many days. I didn't think I'd ever know. It was awful, my hell on earth, not knowing, having no idea why your baby won't stop crying and why he's losing weight. I thought that he was going to die and I'd have no idea who or what to blame.

"It took three pediatricians and two specialists to finally figure it out… And then I went to another specialist. He said the same thing. That he wasn't going to get better. He was only going to get worse. At best… he'd live to be a toddler, but even that was unlikely.

"No matter what I did, no matter how much I cried and prayed, my little boy was in so much pain. And it just got worse and worse and worse until finally he went into the hospital and never came back out.

"I died that day, Edward."

I blanched and stammered, "But what about – didn't you have any help? Where was Ja–"

Bella huffed but it wasn't in real anger. It sounded more like tired resignation than anything, like a battle that had been fought and lost too long ago. "James?… He dealt with it in his own way. He was there, but we barely spoke. There just wasn't anything to say. He offered to take turns at night, but I wouldn't hear of it.

"I spent almost four weeks straight in the hospital as he got worse. I just couldn't leave, not knowing whether or not he'd be gone when I returned." Her lips quivered, biting back quiet sobs. "They put all these IVs in him. His little arms were so bruised. He was so thin, so fragile."

I barely registered the bite of Bella's nails digging into the top of my hand. For once, I wasn't panicking, too lost in her past to give a damn about mine. Yet there was still the telltale thump of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and every breath I took seemed to drag.

"He started having seizures on a Monday afternoon," she whispered. "Like it was yesterday, I remember holding him in my arms as he shook, trying to hold his head up. I remember the way the little IV lines rattled against my wrist. A nurse sat with me. She was my age, pretty, and dark haired. Her name was Jennifer. It was because of her that they let me hold him so long.

"When he finally stabilized, I remember going into the chapel down the hall. I was alone there and the sound of my voice echoed even though the room was small. I screamed after the door closed, half-praying and half-begging for God to take him. I couldn't bear the thought of my baby living like that… for _years_. I prayed for my son's death. And I prayed for mine because by then I knew that it was all my fault."

_Goddamnit, no!_ How she could think that… _no_. My brain refused to even process it.

"No," I breathed, my breath panting out of me. "It wasn't, Bella."

"I know that now. But he died from a disorder that only I could have given him, one that comes from only the mother's side. Back then, I blamed myself for everything. I cursed myself, thinking that if I'd have made James wear a condom. Or if I hadn't stopped taking my birth control… Or if I'd have just…

"Even now, I think about how if I'd just had that abortion… Not because I didn't love him. But because I did. I _do_. But he wouldn't have suffered for so long. Because he did, Edward. James suffered so much. He was in so much pain, even though they pumped him full of as much medication as his body could take. And all I could do was stand there and watch him die a little more each day."

"But God gave me something. Maybe he heard me crying in the chapel. Or maybe he just took pity on my baby. Because he died the very next Tuesday… I remember crying in gratitude that day."

Softly, I stroked Bella's cheek, wiping away the flood of tears that wouldn't stop falling. Her face was puffy and pink, and her eyes were now bloodshot. Before I could speak, before I could stop her, she blurted, "Afterward… I just… fell apart."

Looking away, not even at the ceiling, but somewhere on the distant wall, she shuddered. "Days would go by… just blurs of time and movement. I slept. I ate sometimes. Most of the time, I sat in the rocking chair in the nursery. James stopped trying to tell me to leave, and after the funeral, I didn't see much of him at all. He was coping in his own way, I think."

Aimlessly, she rubbed the scar on her wrist. Each pass of her thumb was like a knife twisting through my skin. I couldn't even name the emotion that swirled inside of me. It was beyond anger. I couldn't even hope to feel that familiar emotion, not after knowing why, after hearing what drove her _there_.

"I felt… so empty inside. It was like there was this crushing weight always on my chest. I couldn't breathe. It was like there was no air left, just this weight. And more than anything I wanted it to crush _me_."

Still looking away, she exhaled and mumbled, "You know, I don't even remember most of those days. Sometimes people would call. Alice came to visit once, I think… My mom did, too, at one point. My head spun so much that I could barely walk. All I could think about was making it stop and making the hollow space inside me go away."

Quietly, she said, "My doctor gave me some tranquilizers to help me sleep at night."

Bella looked at me then – as in, _really_ looked at me – and it was at that moment that my breath caught somewhere deep in my throat. It was as though some light switch flipped in my brain. All of those knowing looks, the non-judgment at my weaknesses, the quiet, undeserved confidence she had in me – it clicked. She didn't have to say anything else, because I knew then that not only did she understand my compulsion to drown myself in alcohol, but I knew _how_ she understood it.

"No," I stammered, flinching from too-vivid images of her like me – staggering down dark hallways, collapsed face down on a bed, and worse, sick and passed out on a bathroom floor.

"I took them by the handful. They made my head stop. They made the emptiness go away. I could sleep for days at a time. I didn't have to feel. I could just be… numb. And that was preferred over the alternative."

The fury I felt for James now multiplied. As hypocritical as it was, I now loathed that man with everything I had. He'd allowed this. He hadn't stopped it.

As if she somehow read my thoughts, Bella chuckled humorlessly. "I don't know where James was those days. Sometimes he'd bring me something to eat. I don't think he really cared what I was doing. He was just waiting until enough time had passed that we could part without it 'looking bad.' Like always. But it wasn't his fault. I was the one trying to escape."

Bella turned back on her side to face me, moving closer until there were only a few inches between us. Her palm cupped my jaw, sliding up and down. A day's worth of stubble had grown in, and it sounded like sandpaper beneath her nails.

"Do you want me to stop now?"

I shook my head, hating that she asked, because like always, I knew that she was thinking of me, not herself. And this wasn't about me. "No. I want to know everything, Bella. I won't fall apart on you. I swear."

As she spoke, her tears dried up and the detachment returned. It sounded as though she were speaking of someone else, as if she were reading a story about some other woman. "There was one day… It was in May. I thought that maybe… maybe that I was feeling a little better. I could breathe a little easier. I even opened up the blinds because I wanted to see the sun. I remember it so clearly – that one moment of clarity after so many days of fog. From our back window, we had this incredible, unobstructed view of Camelback Mountain. The sky was so blue that day, just a few tufts of white cotton.

"I was in the kitchen, actually cooking something for once. I remember that I was hungry and I remember looking down and thinking how baggy my clothes were. In the reflection of the oven glass, I saw how haggard I looked. My cheeks were sunken and my eyes were almost black. And there were these ugly bruises around my eyes."

The parallels between us made my stomach roll, and a stream of curses threatened to pour off my tongue. She hesitated, and her palm slid down my neck to the spot on my chest just over my heart. The skin there burned beneath her touch.

"For maybe thirty minutes, I sat there and waited. I was baking a chicken and it smelled up the room."

Slender fingers pressed hard into my chest, and Bella's forehead tilted to touch my sternum. Pulling her closer, I sucked in lungfuls of perfumed air. Somehow I could breathe when I could smell her like that.

"There was a clock in our living room, one of those that chimed on the hour. I remember hearing it, a sound that was so innocuous, one that I had heard countless times, but right then, in that single instant, it was like… something just snapped in my head. I actually remember smiling and thinking out loud, 'Oh, it's time for James's bottle.' I even went to the refrigerator to look for it. And when I saw that the shelves were all empty, I panicked. In some blind moment, I tore through all the cabinets, throwing out boxes and dishes, searching but finding nothing. And then, I ran down the hall to the nursery.

"When I saw the empty crib, stripped of its sheets, all of the emptiness and devastation I'd hidden from came rushing back, but this time it was so much stronger, so much more encompassing. My knees buckled from the force of it, and somewhere, I heard the smack of my palms hitting the tile. It was so… I can't even describe it. It was like I was being stabbed in the chest over and over again, like I was being gutted on the spot. All I could think about was how I needed the pain to stop, how I just wanted to escape it any way that I could. I remember thinking that there was nothing for me. No hope, no anything. Just pure _nothing_. I thought my chest was going to explode from it, that my ribs were cracking. I couldn't breathe and the tears just wouldn't stop.

"I crawled to the bathroom on my hands and knees. I was almost out of the pills my doctor gave me, but I took every one of them that I could find. Desperate, I rummaged through the drawers, convinced that I'd put more somewhere. But I couldn't find any. Instead I found a pen knife, something left over from when James had emptied out his pockets."

My face contorted and bile rose up my esophagus.

"I'll stop," Bella whispered, snaking her arm around my side. I hadn't even realized that I was the one shaking now.

"I'm fine," I answered through gritted teeth.

She gazed at me for a moment as if measuring the truth of my words, then pressed ahead. "It was such a blur… but I remember little bits. The pills were kicking in, and my eyelids were drooping… I blinked and somehow I'd unfolded the knife. For a long time, I stared at the way the light caught and reflected off the silver of the blade. The edge of it taunted me until I ran the tip of my finger down the side. Something inside of me woke up when I saw the drop of blood. I felt that sting and somehow, that pressure on my chest relented.

"_That_ was what I wanted."

Wetness smeared across my chest, but I didn't hear her cry.

"I wanted that relief. Something to stem the pain, to take the weight off… I don't remember much after that. Even in the bathroom, I could smell the chicken that I hadn't bothered to pull out of the oven. It smelled wrong – greasy, even though it wasn't frying. More than that I remember the metallic smell of blood. The porcelain of the tub was so cold that it made me shiver. When the blade finally went though my skin, I cried in relief. That I remember. So, so vividly. I was floating in this sea of emptiness and misery. But that one motion gave me reprieve. I could hear myself almost laughing as I watched the blood bubble up and run down my arm."

"Why–" I sputtered, not even knowing what I was asking.

"It hurt," she murmured, halting my interruption. "Physically, it hurt, but I didn't care. I needed it to hurt because it made the other hurt go away. I wanted it to be over. All of it. I didn't want to try anymore. I didn't want to talk to my doctor. I didn't want to see James when he walked in smelling like expensive perfume. I didn't want to wake up every fucking day thinking that there was no way out for me. I didn't want to relive all those hours in the hospital when I'd watched the only thing in my life that really mattered wither away and die. I just wanted to sleep and never wake up, because I knew that if I woke, he would still be gone.

"I blacked out at some point, either from the pills or from the blood loss. Either way, I wasn't conscious long enough to try to open the other wrist. My… _aim_… wasn't very good, but I was in the bathtub a long time, so I lost… a lot of blood. Later, the ER doctor told me that the tranquilizers were probably what saved me. They slowed my heart down."

"Who found you?"

"James. He found me. Even though I couldn't see him, I heard him yelling. We had our issues, but I remember the panic in his voice when he called 911, and I could hear him crying.

"The rest you probably got from Alice. They held me for observation for a few days. Alice flew down immediately. She was the one who convinced me to check myself into a rehabilitation facility. It was a lot like a hospital, but this place specialized in the kind of things I needed. Obviously, they treated me physically for the suicide attempt. Some of the time was spent dealing with the tranquilizer addiction I hadn't even realized I'd developed. More than all of that, though, they helped me deal with the worst –my son's death and my belief that I'd caused it."

I closed my eyes and buried my face in her hair. Strands of hair stuck to my cheeks, evidence that while she had cried, unknowingly, I had, too. Softly, I kissed the top of her head. "How long were you there?"

"A few months. And afterward I had regular appointments with a lady who specialized in depression and grief." The heaviness in Bella's voice lifted, and her body relaxed for the first time in more than two hours. "She was… very good. She didn't take my bullshit excuses and she helped me find… a backbone. We're still friends. She taught me how to accept things I couldn't change and I learned how to deal with them… more _positively_."

"Painting? Running?" I guessed.

Bella laughed, and the sound of it stung my eyes. "Yeah."

"I also took medication for a while. I still do, although the dosage is much lower than it was to begin with. And… I have a therapist up here, too."

I wasn't sure why, but out of all of the things that she told me, that surprised me. And it shouldn't have. It wasn't my damned business, but my mouth moved before I could stop it. "In Forks?"

"No, in Port Angles. Her name is Angela Cheney. I see her once every month, just as a check-up. She lets me vent a little and we talk about how I'm dealing with living up here."

Suddenly, I remembered a similar conversation that we'd had months ago. It was the same night that I'd learned about her father and the same night that for some reason, I'd agreed to help her color her walls.

"_Edward, I haven't lived alone in a long time, and if I'm being one hundred percent honest, it wasn't really in my best interest to do so these last couple of years… This is a test I suppose."_

_"Are you passing?" _

_"I think so."_

"Your test… living up here. Are you…"

Her arm hugged my waist, and I felt her lips pepper the bare skin of my chest. "Yeah, passing with flying colors."

It was then that I broke. After all the strain and after hearing the woman I loved tell me that she'd tried to end her life, it was this admission that made me choke – that she was happy and that her happiness had _something_ to do with me. I didn't understand it. And I couldn't stop myself because it was all too much. Some potent mix of relief and fear and devastation lanced through my entire being, and a single, keening sob spilled out. As if to stem this wash of emotion, I held her so tightly against me, tucking her head underneath my chin so that there was no empty space. So close, I could feel her heartbeat bleeding from her chest into mine.

"Bella? Promise me," I begged. My voice was raspy, marred by tears I no longer could contain. It didn't even occur to me to be embarrassed.

"Promise what?" But she knew.

"That you won't ever…" I grabbed her wrist, tracing the length of her mark before bringing it to my lips to kiss. "Do this again."

"I won't, Edward. It's not like that now."

"No, promise," I now demanded, fighting a new wave of nausea that accompanied the images that I knew I'd never be able to shake. "I need to hear that, to hear you say it. I can't… lose you. I… _can't_."

Bella pulled away so that she could see me. I wasn't sure what she saw, but her eyelids brimmed with moisture again, shining in the light of the sun that was now slowly peeking through the window.

Mashing her mouth to mine, fervent and almost desperate, she whispered, "I promise."

.

.

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**A/N: **Like I've said before, some of the subjects that this fic touches upon are very serious in nature. Suicide is one of these. There are no do-overs when it comes to life, and if help is sought, it can be found. Things _can_ get better. If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide please, _please_ talk to someone. If you can't find someone you know or trust, the number for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255. There's always someone willing to listen.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Ungodly Hour, _by The Fray


	34. Change Everything You Are

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

A thousand thank yous to BilliCullen and Scooterstale. I'm constantly amazed that you continue to humor me and tolerate my craziness.

* * *

_**Change Everything You Are**_

* * *

It was damp and miserable outside. A thick, soupy, pale gray fog hid the morning and any hint of the slowly lightening sky. When I moved, shifting every so often against the stiffness of the wood slats, the air around me felt heavy, sticky almost, and its wet tack clung to every inch of my bare chest and arms. I could taste it even – stagnant, humid air, laced with earth and the death that came with autumn.

A front had come through, bringing with it a special kind of cold – the kind that made me forget that it was still only October. Unrelenting and sharp, its chill pierced through my clammy skin into muscle, driving deeper until it settled in my bones. The blossoming ache spread into my joints and made me feel tired, older than my years.

Yet for all the discomfort, I made no move to get up, to go inside, or to even throw on a shirt. Instead, my head spinning and incapable of sleep, I ignored the air and its cold sting and I lingered out here for hours, where I could think, where my skin didn't crawl so much.

Sighing, I closed my eyes.

_Two weeks. _

It had been two weeks to the day since Emmett's and Rose's wedding. Since their reception, where after so many years of absence and forced isolation, _I_ had _danced_ with my mother and at her gentle prompting, had finally recognized the truth and silently admitted it to myself – that I loved the dark haired woman who had invaded my life and turned it inside-out. Selfishly – so selfishly – and ill-equipped for what that meant, I _loved_ Bella.

It had been two weeks now since I'd lost my shit when I'd seen Bella and my father alone and arguing, and like the fucked up bastard I was, had blown up at _her_ in misunderstanding. Because I'd assumed. Because I'd _known_ that my father was driving her away to punish me, and the idea of Bella leaving me hurt more than I could stand. But instead of hearing the words I'd expected, she'd answered all of my misplaced anger and fear with silent, streaking tears and apologetic whispers that made my chest throb.

Because I'd been wrong.

_She_ had stood up for _me _instead, and her words from that night burned into my brain.

_"You mean, he didn't… Why?" _

_"What do you mean why?"_

_"Why would you…"_

_"Defend you? Take your side?"_

_"Yeah…"_

_"Because I am… if there has to be sides, even when you screw up… I'm always on yours."_

Never had I experienced that kind of blind, unfounded faith – that unwavering support she so freely gave. And I'd never, _ever_ felt the kind of _hope _that faith elicited.

So many days had passed since Bella had let me _know_ her, on every level and in every possible way. Since I'd been inside of her for the first time, and afterward, had asked her questions that I had no right to ask. Since she'd answered me and I'd held her, bare, exposed, and trembling from grief and the anguish of remembrance. Since she had then responded in kind by wrapping herself around me when her words and her sadness crushed me.

In that instant – that brittle, delicate moment in time that haunted me every time I laid my head down to sleep – with a conviction I'd not felt in so long, my decision was made. I told myself that even though I didn't deserve Bella, I wanted to be _enough_. More than anything, I wanted that – to be worth her time – so that maybe I could love her longer and so that maybe I wouldn't scare her away or bury her with my fucked up life.

So _for her_, for the first time in _years_, for me it had also been two weeks of complete and utter sobriety.

_Fourteen fucking days. _

And every single minute of it, never mind my better intentions and reasons, I had been a goddamned basketcase.

I sighed again, this time in tired resignation, and leaned my head back.

I should have expected this. I should have expected that nothing could ever be easy and I should have known that just because I wanted something so much my heart pounded for it didn't mean that the rest of my brain and body would allow it.

Because in reality, scotch was what I really knew. It had been my only companion for so long. It let me forget and it hid the images that I didn't want to see, scorching them away in its soothing liquid fire. It dampened everything around me and made me not _feel _so much, and without that I didn't know what to do.

It was like some emotional rollercoaster that refused to stop. My waking hours turned into a clacking ride filled with plummeting hills and sharp, twisty turns that stole the air from my lungs. Some days, I was just angry, snapping and pissed off at the world and everything in it. Some days, I was almost okay – _almost_ normal. But there were other days… days when I could barely breathe and it felt like the ceiling was collapsing and the walls were caving in. Those days made me want to put my fist through the wall because there was nothing I could do to stop them.

If Bella knew or recognized my swinging moods, she didn't mention it, and I certainly didn't, knowing that I would probably fail sooner rather than later. Instead, like always, she acted as though nothing at all had changed between us, and she never questioned my anxious fidgets or the agitation in my voice. Almost every night, smiling and laughing when she kissed my mouth, she shoved her brushes and paint rollers in my hands. I didn't mind; the dull motion was almost welcome. Some nights, we only painted for an hour or so. Some nights, not at all, instead falling into easy conversation around her kitchen table, or when I was lucky, in her bed. But no matter how we spent our hours, in her house, seeing and smelling and touching her – surrounded by her – my mind almost calmed and my body hummed in relief.

But when she was away, teaching and giving out her midterms, when it was quiet and I was alone, it was the worst.

Like yesterday or the day before when my hands curled around invisible glasses, trembling and clawing, and my guts writhed and quivered the moment I walked into the kitchen.

Like right now, as I sat here on my front porch in the wet cold, refusing to go back inside and face my house, my walls, and the dreams and memories drove me out here to begin with.

Without Bella around, I thought too much and I remembered too much. Because everything – absolutely everything – reminded me of why I needed to drink in the first place.

Bottled up inside my old house – _her_ house – without alcohol there to hide her, everywhere I looked, in every nook and cranny, I saw my sister in perfect, _sober_ clarity. As I walked down the hallway, I heard her girlish giggles and slapping bare feet against the wood floors. Inside the bathroom, I smelled the faint mingled scents of perfume and lotion. When I drifted through the living room, I saw her sitting at the piano, plinking away _Heart and Soul, _tossing her curls and motioning me with her head to come play my part. That image almost made me smile – almost let me forget…

But like always, just as quickly as the once-pleasant images appeared, in my fucked up mind, the smiles and laughter turned to angry yelling, and then to blood curdling screams. Just as clearly as if she were right there beside me, I heard her, and when my lungs filled, instead of the normal scents of my house, I smelled the unforgettable stench of wet, rotting leaves and blood and pouring gasoline.

Four years worth of arguments, hateful words, and wishing that it had been me rather than her flooded my mind. I could see it in my mother's sad eyes and hunched, shaking shoulders. I felt it in the bite of my father's bitter condescension.

Anger, disappointment, regret, and resentment – like a dark maelstrom, it all swirled in my head until I could see nothing else, until my insides clenched and tears blurred my vision, until I slumped and shook beneath its force.

_This_ was _sober_ for me.

It was like an old wound that had been torn open again. Only this time, instead of being sewn shut so it could slowly fester beneath, it had been left open to bleed and I was awake and aware of it all.

"Goddamnit," I muttered, my voice loud and intrusive in the quiet, even at a whisper. I blinked against the sting in my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling cool, humid air. My throat burned from the chill and I nearly choked. Angrily, I shook my head and scrubbed my face, desperate to shove those deep spiraling thoughts away before they pulled me under.

Out of habit, I counted, _One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, _searching for distraction to calm the hammer in my chest and the itch beneath my skin.

Later, after my heart rate slowed again, drumming my fingers against the faded armrest, I stared out across the yard. As far as I could see, gray still filled the valleys and enveloped the trees, erasing all color. My mother's old orchard had given away all its leaves and its branches were nothing but a dark shadowy web in the mist. In the distance, at the head of the drive, the lines of a house, my other house – _Bella's house_ – were little more than fuzzy approximations, but they drew my eyes as surely as if they were bright and blaring.

Without thinking, I glanced down at my wrist.

It was six-forty five in the morning, and Bella's windows were still dark.

My knee bobbed and I squinted, foolishly and irrationally willing them to brighten. Not seeing light in those windows _bothered_ me. A completely different kind of anxiety began to build. It was subtler, less raw maybe. But it made something begin to turn uncomfortably in my chest and it made my fingertips grip and curl around the edges of the armrests until there was the prick of sharp splinters in my palm.

Countless minutes passed by like that – me, perched on the edge of my old adirondack, my jaw slowly rolling and clenching – watching and thinking and _wanting_. And as time wore on, I grasped the reality of my situation. I was here on my porch for more than just the necessary escape from the stifling confines of my house and its demons; I was also out here _waiting_. For her. I was waiting for the appearance of that little square of pale yellow light on the second floor, for the visible assurance Bella swore to me that I didn't need, so that I could breathe again. Because regardless of her promises and the evidence that I saw every evening when I walked through her front door, the knowledge that I now possessed – that she _gave_ me – still scared the fuck out of me. It made me want to grab her and never let her out of my sight.

I _almost_ called her; my thumb drifted over that little green button, buzzing with urgency. It didn't matter that it was Saturday and that Bella always slept until eight on the weekends. And I didn't give a fuck that I'd seen her less than seven hours ago. With a longing that I couldn't even begin to name or describe, I wanted to walk through her bright red door and climb up her steps. I wanted to crawl into bed with her and wake her up with my mouth and then afterward, feel the reassurance of the silky soft skin of her back against my chest.

At seven-fifteen, I gave in.

**~.~.~**

"Paint or a movie?"

My head shot up, momentarily forgetting the boiling pot that I was supposed to be stirring. Before I could even fully process what she'd asked, an inarticulate, automatic "Huh?" tumbled out of my mouth.

She was fast.

For a too-long moment, Bella didn't answer. And rather than repeating myself, I simply stared. Like the besotted, tongue-tied idiot I was, I stared, because it was impossible for me not to.

Even though she wore nothing more than a well-worn pullover and a pair of black stretchy pants, she was quietly beautiful. No matter how many times I saw her like this – relaxed, disheveled, and without a speck of makeup – that never seemed to change. Sometimes, without her even trying, it was like I was looking at her for the first time. And tonight, in the soft light of her kitchen, damp and still flushed from heat and steam, everything about her was almost radiant.

Involuntarily, in a slow, repeating circuit, my eyes traveled down the long line of her neck to the point of her shirt's "v," where it tucked into the dip between her breasts and then back up again. She'd piled her hair high on top of her head in some type of knot, leaving _so much_ exposed skin. A handful of strands, dark and still wet, escaped her knot, falling loosely around her face. My fingers instantly itched to smooth them away – to touch. Anywhere. _Everywhere._

Casually, making no attempt whatsoever to close the three-foot gap between us, Bella leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. Incapable of looking away, I still stared, now watching the way she watched me.

Distracted by skin and those damned stretchy pants, it took me a second to realize that something was wrong, however. Her expression was _off_, nothing at all like the soft smile she'd worn before she went upstairs, and for the life of me I couldn't figure it out. On the surface, it was flat – indifferent maybe. But when I really focused and paid attention, there was something unidentifiable lurking just beneath that made my skin prickle. It was there in the slight lift of her cheeks, as if she were biting the inside of her mouth, and it was etched in the too-smooth span of her brow. My stomach knotted, and I was left confused and anxious, unsure of what she was thinking.

Suddenly uncomfortable, I dropped the spoon, ignoring the splash of hot liquid against my wrist, and turned, expecting her to call me out on something I didn't really want to face.

Probably my uninvited appearance at her doorstep this morning.

"What?" I tried to conceal the apprehension in my voice by faking a cough.

As if to purposefully drive me insane, Bella was silent. Just when I couldn't stand it anymore and started to ask again, however, the corner of her mouth pulled up and her lips twitched once. Like I was some kind of exhibit, mirroring my own appraisal, her gaze swept up and down my frame, lingering at my chest and waist. Reacting to God only knew what she saw, that single twitch broke into a grin and her eyes literally danced in sudden undisguised amusement.

The tension in my shoulders immediately released, and all of the air seemed to deflate from my lungs in a single heaving breath.

"_What?_" I repeated, this time injecting enough sarcasm to hide my relief.

"You're wearing…" A giggle spilled out, and her hand flew to her mouth to muffle another. "My _apron_."

_Shit. _

I'd forgotten about that - about the little pink flowers that now decorated the entire front of my body. A matching pink warmth climbed my neck, even though my lips involuntarily turned up, too, knowing full well just how utterly ridiculous I looked.

But amusement and teasing, I could handle. For all I cared, she could laugh at me all damned day. Fuck, I'd welcome it if it meant that I could avoid other topics.

I cocked a brow in exaggerated indignation and huffed, again infusing as much sarcasm as I could manage. "Shut it."

"No, it… It suits you…

"But you probably should know that _I_…" She paused for effect and pointed at herself. "Don't even wear that. It's… for looks. You know, to just hang on a hook and leave. No one really wears those things."

When I jerked on the strings to pull the damnable thing off, Bella just threw her head back, not even trying to hide her laughter now. Her jaw would probably be sore tomorrow.

"Whatever," I answered, rolling my eyes and turning back to the stove. Inside, however, I was still gasping for air, trying to quiet the erratic swing of my emotions. "This shit pops. What the fuck is it anyway?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her step toward me. There was the so soft pressure and heat of her hand on my upper arm and when I breathed in, I smelled the light, clean scent of her soap. It took everything I had to not close my eyes and suck in as deeply as I could.

On her tiptoes and leaning over my shoulder, so close that wet strands brushed across my cheek, she laughed again. "Edward, just turn the heat down."

I glanced at her and then at the boiling liquid. "What?"

Slowly, Bella slid underneath my arm to stand between the stove and me and fiddled with one of the knobs. Almost instantly, the loud gurgle of hot liquid ceased, and then there was nothing but the sound of her breathing and mine. Not leaving the cage of my arms, she stayed there, picked up the spoon that I'd dropped, and leaned back into my chest.

"When you said you didn't know how to cook, you weren't lying, were you?"

"How was I supposed to know?" I mumbled, dropping my chin to her shoulder and slipping my arms around her waist. "Mrs. Cope did all this shit."

"Okay, lesson one: heat," she chuckled as she started stirring the concoction that she'd sworn would taste like heaven when it was finally done.

"It makes things boil," she went on, gesturing dramatically and play lecturing as though I were one of her students. "See, less heat, less boiling."

The tickle of her hair and the feel of her back expanding and contracting against me made it impossible to care about the damned food, the fact that she was making fun of me, or anything else for that matter. All I really wanted to do was kiss her until she was begging for air and then carry her upstairs for a repeat of this morning.

"Yeah, yeah, okay," I muttered. "I was just doing what you told me to do. Your fault for not waiting to take a shower." I kissed the side of her neck, parting my lips so that I could taste her skin. It was so soft. My whisper was almost as soft. "Preferably with me."

I smiled when I felt a light tremor race down her spine. Without pulling away, Bella turned her face to the side, craning so that she could look at me. A familiar sight, her bottom lip folded between her teeth.

"I can't leave you for a minute, can I?"

I wanted to tease her, too – to come back with some smart-ass remark – but she was so fucking close, and when she said 'leave', my goddamned unstable mood shifted once again in yet another dip in the roller coaster ride of my days. A jab of irrational despair and emptiness – some holdover from this morning's psychological clusterfuck – hit my stomach and echoed against my ribcage. Far too serious and far too honest, I quickly looked down and murmured into her shoulder, "No. No, you can't."

Hearing what I tried so hard to bury, the smirk fell away and her eyes widened and softened, searching mine. The cushiony pad of her thumb gently touched my bottom lip and then her forefinger drew my frown lines. I didn't know how that made me feel, and the reclusive, defensive part of me wanted to pull away. But at the same time, a kind of bittersweet, melancholy warmth surged through the empty cavity of my chest, chasing away that sharper jab. It was some mix of unspoken love and contentment with the sadness that I could never avoid. Before she could answer me, however, before she could say words that would prove I hadn't hidden a thing from her over these past weeks, my mouth descended on hers to drown it all out.

But the moment my lips touched hers, it was _me_ who was drowning. Because that was what kissing Bella was like – _drowning_. It was always like that. Like being consumed by sensation and wanting and that too-brief moment of bliss and forgetting. Like being pulled down into a deep, dark whirlpool, only it was one that I never wanted to escape. I just wanted to stay there with her until the end of days.

Bella's mouth was warm and her tongue felt like wet silk, coaxing and sliding all around mine. The way she kissed me, so intimately, pushing her fingers through my hair to hold me there, made my whole body heat and made my abdomen coil. When she shifted against me, sliding against the reaction I didn't bother trying to hide from her anymore, I groaned and sucked on that place just below her ear where the skin was satiny and so sensitive. She made a little sigh-whimper noise that I wanted to hear again and again, and it made my arms cinch around her middle, squeezing and holding her as tightly against me as I could.

In every way that mattered, when she breathed out, I breathed in.

**~.~.~**

The clock on the wall read eight-thirty. And for a long while and all too aware that my fist was curled around air instead of glass, I stared across the table and now-empty dishes at the small round face, watching the black line of the long hand inch ever so slowly around. Silently, matching my breathing to the quiet monotony, I counted the ticks and tried not to think about the inevitability of going home and all that entailed. I didn't want to think about another sleepless night, wrestling with the demons in my head and in my house. And I didn't want to think about another cold, gray morning spent sitting on my porch, waiting for Bella to wake.

Like the emotionally stunted idiot I was, I didn't know how to ask her if I could stay any more than I knew how to admit that I needed her, that I loved her, and that I was scared as fuck about what that meant for both of us. Frankly, considering my convoluted motivations, most of which were purely selfish, even if I somehow managed to ask, I wasn't sure if I _should_ stay.

But fuck, I _wanted_. As weak and girlish as it sounded, I wanted to fall asleep with her every single night. I wanted to close my eyes and feel the soft, supple planes of Bella's body meshed with my harder ones – the weight of her head on my shoulder, the press of her thigh carelessly slung over mine, and the comforting circle of her arm draped across my waist. And in the morning when the sun filtered around the shades, I wanted to wake still tangled up in white sheets and _her. _

_Eight thirty-three._

_Thirty-four._

_Thirty-five._

In my periphery, there was a quick flash of dark-colored fabric that pulled me from my plummeting thoughts. And then there were slender fingers and short-cut nails slowly gliding up and down my forearm over the cotton of my shirtsleeve. As if it had been waiting for her permission to relax, my whole arm seemed to melt into the table, and almost-tickling tingles skittered along my skin in her fingers' wake. I glanced down and quietly sighed as I watched the familiar way Bella touched me, reveling in the affection that I didn't deserve but wanted anyway.

Untold minutes passed by like that – no spoken words or furtive movement, just quiet, gentle touches – as if Bella somehow saw through all my pretenses to my inner war and wanted to soothe it away.

Eventually, those walking fingers slid down to my wrist and tapped my knuckles. When I flipped my hand over, automatically obeying her silent command, they threaded between my own stationary ones and squeezed. Unlike mine, her grip was firm and sure, promising constancy and reassurance. At the same time, however, something – maybe the knowledge that this was her way of warning me, too – made my heart instantly thump against my sternum, and the stew I'd just eaten felt like a brick in the pit of my stomach.

Just a touch over a whisper, Bella called my name, "Edward?"

I swallowed, because I knew that tone and what lay beneath it.

"Yeah," I breathed, returning my focus to the dragging hand of the clock. Underneath the table, my knee bounced in a quick, anxious rhythm.

_Eight forty-one... _

"Are you okay?"

My eyes closed for a second too long. Her question was normal and easy – _so fucking simple_ – but the fact that Bella asked so quietly said that we both knew better than that. Somewhere behind my eyes, a pinpoint ache throbbed as if to answer. Futilely, I shoved my thumb and forefinger against my lids to massage it away.

"I'm fine." My response was too clipped and too fast to be true.

I smiled a weak smile that she surely knew wasn't sincere and propped my elbow on the table so that I could hide in my palm. Before looking away, I watched blatant worry spread across her forehead, and her lips turned down.

Because _of course_, she _knew, _and unveiled disbelief colored her tone. "Really?"

The ache behind my eyes stabbed like a knife. "I don't want to talk about it," I whispered, sounding angry but knowing that really I was begging. Because I couldn't stand the idea of disappointment from her, and if – no, _when_ – I fucked up and drank again, if she knew, then that would be what I'd see.

Bella's fingers tightened around mine, squeezing again until I could feel her nails digging into my skin, and for what felt like eternity, she didn't answer.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening, loud and awkward and everything that I hated. When I looked up from my palm, dreading what I would find in her expression, I saw sharply slanted brows and dark, knowing eyes that seemed to stare directly through me. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, no doubt biting back the words she really wanted to say.

I knew that look well; it was the one that said, "I don't believe you at all, so cut your bullshit." The memory of her dogging me over Jacob – over my jealousy – that night months ago was bright and blaring, and a small part of me wanted her to take me to task again. It wanted her to push me so that I could snap and spill my guts, so that I could lean on her yet again.

But instead of pushing, after a moment more of thoughtful contemplation – of deciding – a soft, "okay," was all she said, and her fingers released mine to begin gathering the dishes from the table.

I didn't know whether to cry or yell or laugh. But I did none of those.

"Here, let me wash, okay?" Dumping the rest of the dishes into the sink, I grabbed the dishcloth and reached for the detergent.

When Bella turned, stretching and trying to wrestle the towel away, she grinned _my_ grin, the one that spread across her face and made everything right – the one that I'd been waiting for all night and hadn't even realized it. And just like that, it was as though nothing were wrong, as though she hadn't noticed me crumbling and grasping at empty air.

"No, you cooked," she deadpanned.

I snorted and huffed, "Bullshit."

Her eyes sparkled and in practiced motion, Bella hooked her thumb in one of my belt loops to turn me. "Fine." She tugged me forward, and I was only too glad to comply. "I cooked and you…watch-"

"Distracted," I finished, my lips already where they wanted to be.

I kissed her long and slow, and somehow we ended up on the sofa, the dishes and soapy water long forgotten. Her shirt disappeared over her head and then mine, and as I laid her back to remove the rest, she gave me the words I wanted but was too afraid to ask.

"You're staying, right? I missed you this week."

Hidden in the crook of her neck, my eyes screwed tight and I murmured, "As long as you'll let me."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Butterflies and Hurricanes, _by Muse


	35. Dream of Ways to Throw It All Away

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, lovely BilliCullen, for reading and sharing your thoughts. And a thank you and a slightly late Happy Birthday to you, Scooterstale.

* * *

**_Dream of Ways to Throw It All Away_**

* * *

"Edward?"

Bella's voice was soft and slurring, just loud enough to pull me from the edge of contented sleep. For a moment, I was almost certain that I was dreaming, that somehow just like in my waking hours, she'd found a way inside of my head.

"Edward?" she repeated, this time grazing the top of my shoulder with her lips.

"Yeah?" I finally mumbled, groggy and disoriented, still not entirely sure of my level of awareness.

Dimly, I registered the tickle of cool air across warm skin as her palm moved up from its resting place low on my stomach to my chest, and a slender leg that had somehow hooked itself over my knee slid up ever so slightly. Eyes closed and smiling, I shifted deeper into the mattress, pulling her tighter against me, tangling us even more, and dropped my head to the side so that I could kiss her temple. Against my lips, her hair was still damp and it stuck when I pulled away. When I breathed in, all I could smell was clean linen, a hint of sweet flowers, and _warmth_, all mingled with the lingering remnants of sex that still clung to the sheets.

With a sigh, Bella's fingers walked through the smattering of hair on my chest up to the side of my neck, and then I felt her lazily stretch against my side before burrowing back in. Muffled against me, I barely heard her ask, "Is that yours or mine?"

I hummed something unintelligible, not following her questioning at all. Considering my level of exhaustion, frankly, I didn't really care. For once, contented and calm, all I wanted to do was lay there, wrap myself around her, and lose consciousness for a few short hours.

"Phone," Bella murmured.

"Hm?"

She managed a garbled, "Phone's ringing," before she drifted back to sleep, her exploring fingers limply falling away.

A second of blankness passed before something Bella said finally registered. It was like someone doused a bucket of ice water over my head, and lucidity clawed its way back through the fog of sleep, jerking me back up to the surface.

Grimacing against the sudden, inexplicable weight that swelled in the pit of my stomach, I reluctantly opened my eyes to darkness and to the quiet chatter of plastic against wood.

The pale, glowing light of my phone's screen came to life, illuminating the room and throwing shadows. Instinctively, my arm reacted, more habit than conscious movement. Before I could reach across the space, however, the vibrating stopped and the screen turned dark. Like some kind of sick taunt, it was almost as if it were just waiting for me to wake. I gazed up at the black ceiling overhead, hesitating, contemplating letting it go to voicemail, telling myself to forget whatever or whoever it was, at least until morning.

Except that now I was wide awake. And except that now when I glanced over to the nightstand once more and saw the blinking red LED of the missed call, that weight in my stomach sank like a rock. My breathing turned shallow and harsh, as though my lungs were spent and my airways were closing fast.

I flinched when the screen lit bright white again, and when I heard the angry, corresponding drone, my skin began to crawl in anxiety.

Because nothing – absolutely _nothing_ – good ever came from a phone call in the dead of the night.

With a sharp punch of air, I grabbed the damned thing and stared, my heart settled fully at the base my throat.

_E. Cullen_, written in flashing black typed font, scrolled across the screen.

"I don't want to know," I mumbled, confessing to no one but the dark.

Outside, the ever-present rain tapped against the windowpanes. For a split second, it was all I could hear, a rhythmic _rap-tap_ that was far, far too reminiscent of another rainy night. Something resembling raw panic settled in my bones, as my mind shot toward a dozen scenarios, all of which made me want to instantly sink into the floor and disappear. Or drink. Or both.

It was startling how quickly my throat parched and how my brain automatically reached for what it knew could soothe. For the one thing I'd told myself that I couldn't have.

My hand buzzed when the phone vibrated again, jarring me into some kind of rote action. Quietly, doing my damnedest to not wake the woman sleeping around me, I wearily untangled myself and slipped out of bed.

"Em? What the hell?" I whispered, pulling the bedroom door closed behind me. The wood floor beneath my bare feet was cold, and without a shirt, the air was chilly. But the shudder that ran down my spine and the quiver in my voice had nothing to do with the temperature.

"It's… it's Rose… the baby…" Emmett fumbled, not bothering with any pretense of a greeting. His voice cracked when he said _baby_.

My heart slammed into my sternum because I didn't have to be there to know that my brother – a man who I'd only seen cry once since we were kids – had been crying. Hard. He was silent for a moment, collecting himself, but then without warning, he began speaking again, his voice thick and unnaturally high. He flew through broken words faster than I could follow, as if saying them burned his tongue.

"She's… something happened… We had to go… _hospital_."

I winced, and a short, breathy, "Fuck," spilled out of my mouth.

Because _hospital _was one word I did know. Leaning back against the wall, I dry washed my face, trying to suppress the tight ball of nausea that invariably came with it.

"Slow down, Emmett," I mumbled. I took a deep breath, pausing because I didn't have a clue as to what_ I_ could do about any of this. "What happened?"

In the background, an intercom blared. It was the same noise that shattered my dreams at night, the one that left me slick from cold sweat, and I was instantly transported back in time.

_Paging Dr. Gerandy. Code Orange. Third Floor… _

_Paging Allcome. Code Blue. Third Floor. Repeat. Paging Allcome. Code Blue… _

Invisible fingers tightened around the ball of my shoulder and I flinched, cringing and drawing my limbs tighter to my torso. As if I were right there, still strapped down on that bed, too broken to move, I could hear the stampede of my pulse in my ears, echoed in the blip of the heart monitor.

"_Where is she?"_

"_Your sister didn't make it, son…"_

My eyes slid shut to stem the memory of the voice and the words that weren't really here, the ones that I'd never forget as long as I lived.

"What happened, Em?" I pressed, this time so quietly.

"She went… into labor."

Even I, in all my self-absorbed oblivion, knew that it was early. _Too early_. I closed my eyes again, this time preparing to hear something I didn't think my too-weak and too-sober psyche could handle. I breathed out through my nose and softly asked, "When?"

Barely intelligible, Emmett finally answered, accelerating and gaining volume, "The contractions started a few hours ago… they were so bad… and she started bleeding…and fuck, Edward, I didn't know what to do." He took a stuttering breath and through the line, there was a sudden hard smack of flesh against plastic or wood. "The whole ride to the hospital she cried and kept screaming about losing the baby… that was all she cared about. Like nothing else mattered. Not me. Not her. Just the baby. God, and then when they took her in, she was so fucking pale. What was I supposed to do? She just… "

I waited for him to finish. When I looked down, my fist was balled so tightly that my knuckles were white and it was pressing into the top of my thigh, painfully, searching for some kind of grounding. The only image I had of James, Jr. – that single 5x7 picture that Bella had showed me so many nights ago – assaulted my mind with a force so violent that when I sucked in another gulp of air, my ribcage felt like it was pulling apart.

"She's still in surgery. _Still._ What the hell are they doing?" There was another smack, this time louder. "And these people won't tell me a damned thing!"

I swallowed past stagnant air and the nerves that tied my tongue and said the only thing that came to mind. "Did you… have you called Dad?"

Silence echoed through the line.

"Did you hear me?"

"Yeah…" he sighed. "They're still in Portland at that stupid conference he had to go to. They won't be here at least until six."

I heard the creak of vinyl. Sheer exhaustion and defeat came in the form of a despairing, whispered, "Edward, I don't know what to do… I'm going out of my fucking mind..."

Emmett sounded… _young_ and scared, so unlike the confident and calm man I knew, so unlike the man who'd barged his way back into my life. In this moment, it was just like the first day we showed up at Forks High School so many years ago. It was like he was waiting for me. To say something. To do something that would fix everything and make this all go away. To be the goddamned older brother for once.

"Just… shit, Emmett, I don't know. Just sit there and try to…" I stopped. A bead of sweat dripped down my back, and my nails bit sharply into the meat of my palm. "Fuck, I'll… I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"

**~.~.~**

Nothing had changed.

The hallways were just as they'd been the last time I was here, long, dingy, white tile on white walls on white drop ceilings. The wood paneled receptionist's desk was still in the same place, and the same bored eyes with too much mascara greeted me when I uncertainly asked where to go.

As I slowly passed by the waiting rooms, it was as though my head were detached from my body, floating far above, mindlessly cataloguing and comparing everything to the memories I tried so damned hard to forget. But _of course, _I remembered.

By the windows, the same fake flowers sat in the same cheap, opaque vases. On the old, scuffed tables, there were stacks of bruised magazines, and overhead, in every direction as far as I could see, the old industrial fluorescents still shined too bright, casting dark shadows over weary faces.

And the smell. Fuck, the smell. With every breath I took, my head spun because _hospital_ was everywhere. Microwaved food and stale coffee and antiseptic and death and decay.

When I turned the last corner, the attacks still came. More images, and this time, there were sounds that I'd believed I'd forgotten but really hadn't at all – the squeak of rubber soles, the whisper of hushed conversations near the nurses' station, the blaring of a television that had been left on. Behind the heavy wooden doors came more, and thee nearly stole my remaining sense of reason. I could hear the incessant blipping of the monitors, and filling the quiet, making my muscles lock and shudder was the all-too familiar _shush-shush_ of air being pumped through breathing machines.

I fucking _hated _hospitals. I hated everything about them, because inside of these white walls, I had no choice but to remember, to relive, and to regret.

_What are you doing here, Edward?_ I repeated for the hundredth time. Yet for all my discomfort, for all the churn in my gut and for all the twitching of my fists, my feet kept walking, noiselessly targeting the door on the far left.

When I stepped into the waiting room, I scanned the line of chairs, instantly landing on my brother's lone, disheveled form. He was hunched over in the corner, elbows on his knees and looking down at the carpet. He looked every bit the image I'd guessed when he had called; he looked beaten.

"Here," I muttered, holding out one of the Styrofoam cups I'd pilfered from the cafeteria.

Emmett glanced up at me with bloodshot eyes, startled, as if he hadn't heard me come in, and then his gaze shifted from me to the proffered white cup. Normally boyish and too cheerful, his face was now worn and haggard, and it registered a hint of surprise. But whatever he thought, he chose not to voice, and instead mumbled a quiet thanks.

"Anything?" I asked as I eased into the chair beside him.

"Nothing." He frowned sharply and turned away to hide. "Absolutely nothing. The nurses just say that the doctor will be out soon and he'll have an update. What does that even mean anyway?"

"That's… bullshit," was all I could come up with. The coffee that I sucked down burned through my esophagus and once it hit my stomach, it felt like boiling molten lead.

"You didn't have to come. I know this isn't really a… comfortable place for yo-"

"It's fine," I lied. "Don't worry about it."

In reality, there was nothing about this situation that was remotely _comfortable_.

Sitting here in a goddamned hospital, waiting for some kind of news about my brother's wife and their baby – my _niece_ – made me want to throw things. It made my brain flip and spin and it made my knee anxiously bob up and down, because invariably I assumed the worst – that the past would repeat itself.

There was but one thing in which I could find any measure of relief: at least I'd come here alone. I'd convinced Bella to stay at her house and let me handle this without her. When all I'd wanted was her, here with me, selfishly, so that I didn't have to deal with all of this mindfuck alone, at least I'd done _something_ right.

"_Do you want me to go with you?" _she'd asked as soon as I had come back into the bedroom. The lamp by the bed was on, and she was wide awake and sitting up in bed with the top sheet loosely wrapped around her shoulders. It'd been clear enough from the bow of her spine and the turn of her lips for me to know that she had heard more through the closed door than I'd wanted. She understood what was going on and when she'd looked up at me, all I could see was worry and the shine of moisture in her eyes.

"_It's okay," _I'd said, leaning down to kiss her mouth before quickly pulling on my jeans. _"Em called from the hospital." _

_"It's too early, Edward… "_

"_Yeah, I know. There's some… crap going on and he's kind of by himself in the waiting room. I'm just… I don't know, going to go sit with him for a little while."_

_"Are you sure?"_

I hadn't been – I still wasn't – but there was no way in hell that I could have brought her into _this_, considering. This was too close to home, for me certainly, but more than anything for her. I could at least protect her from this shit – from the reminders of her own demons.

_"Yeah, it's fine. We'll probably just drink a lot of shitty coffee and watch whatever's playing on ESPN while we wait. It might be better for it to be just guys anyway," _I'd managed, forcing the lie._ "I'll be back as soon as Mom and Dad get there. Just… just go back to sleep. I'll call you later, okay?"_

Bella had hesitated, not trusting me or maybe not trusting herself, but after a second, she'd finally nodded and kissed me back.

When I sat my coffee down, I picked up an old remote that had been left on the table. It looked like something that had come out of the mid-eighties, but when I clicked the power button, the television in the corner immediately flickered to life.

For what felt like hours, we sat there, side-by-side, saying nothing, instead sipping bitter, lukewarm coffee and watching replays of games of which I already knew the outcomes. It was awkward and there was not one second that my stomach settled, not one second that I forgot where I was or why I was here. If anything, the dread that seemed like a live thing inside of my chest only grew.

But at least in the distraction, the drawn lines across my brother's brow began to fade.

"You dumb shit!" Emmett fumed. "Can you believe that fucker? How much are they paying him anyway?"

I stared at the twenty-two year old jogging across the field like he owned it, like he had nothing in the world to lose. "Contract says twenty. He's barely worth five if you ask me. All hype."

Shaking his head, he made a face and leaned forward in his chair, glaring at the screen in earnest. "Two sacks in a row. Jesus! Throw the fucking ball, you dipshit!"

A punch of a laugh tumbled out, and I slugged the dregs in my cup with a grimace. "It only gets worse, you know that, right?"

Emmett shoved a hand through his hair and frowned. "Yeah, yeah. I saw the score. We don't have a chance in hell this year. They were idiots for not picking up that kid out of A&M. Or anyone else for that matter. Hell, you had more of an arm than that little prick."

I didn't answer and for a long while, we were silent again. On the far wall, the clock dragged, the long hand seemingly rounding the face in hours rather than minutes. Inside, I was dying, still strung too tight and sick with the unease that my mind refused to release. But now I was so exhausted that my lids barely stayed open. With each blink, the faces on the television screen blurred and in my ears, their words slowly blended together into a low background noise.

At some point, some commercial came on, some random, loud and obnoxious advertisement hocking products that no one needed, but the noise was enough to shake me out of my stupor. I turned and found my brother leaning tiredly against an armrest, roughly massaging his sagging eyes.

"You all right?" I asked quietly, treading softly into the very territory that we'd both avoided all night.

Emmett looked at me then, and every bit of the stress he felt was back in his face. He was that young kid again – no sense of direction or grounding, no tether to hold him down.

"No," he whispered. Staring straight ahead, incapable of meeting whatever hid in my expression, he floored me with his response. "If the baby dies, I don't think we can have another one."

It didn't escape my notice that he said _can't_, not _won't_. A new layer of anxiety piled onto my already endless stack, and my traitorous mouth ran away from me before I could rein it in. "What do you mean?"

Emmett trailed the tip of a finger along the armrest, scratching some pattern I couldn't discern in the faded fabric. So softly that I had to concentrate to hear, he explained, "We didn't think Rose could get pregnant before all this." He waved a hand haphazardly, motioning toward nothing and everything all at once. "And I was fine with that, you know. I'd told her that we could get a surrogate or adopt or something. Or fuck, just… not have kids. Whatever she wanted. I didn't care. I just wanted… her."

My eyes closed as I waited for him to continue, at the same time seeing Bella's face all over again, tear-stained and staring at me across her mattress, clutching my hand as though it were a lifeline.

"She… Rosie doesn't want people to know, but… some shit happened… a long time ago. Back in college before we met." Something resembling hatred tore across my brother's face, and I watched the tendons in his forearms roll as his fingers flexed. "It… he messed her up pretty badly."

It didn't take a genius to understand the other words, the ones he didn't speak, and immediately I wanted to hit something, too.

"This baby was… something the doctor didn't think would ever happen. Lill's like… a miracle to her. That's why Rose was so… adamant… in the car."

Like so many moments in these last years, I was so lost, so ill-equipped to deal with any of this. My fingers curled around the armrests of my chair and my knee began to bob anew, this time fast enough that I couldn't hope to hide my agitation. With everything in me, I wanted to run. I needed to drive back to Bella's house, crawl under her sheets with her, and forget everything. I needed that because everything in me strained and clawed for the numbness that I now denied myself.

"Emmett, just wait until the doc–"

"I don't know what to think, Edward." He buried his face in his hands and scrubbed as though he could scour everything away. "It's my wife _and_ my daughter. What if I have to choose? What if the doctor comes back and tells me it's one or the other? I know what she'd say. But… What the fuck do I do?"

"I don't know," I stammered, trying to find something that made sense, something that meant something. It was all for naught, because even I knew that there was no right answer. And even if there were, I certainly wasn't the person to ask.

"I can't tell you that. Just… don't think about that right now. They haven't said anything like that."

Emmett stood up and paced across the room. His feet dragged and his wide shoulders were slumped and weary, as if he bore a weight that he had no hope of hefting. When he reached the far end of the room, he stopped facing the wall and leaned against it, crossing his arms in front of him like a pillow. His head tilted forward in defeat, and muffled against his shirt and the wall, he whispered, "I know. But… I just… I think I'll die if she does…"

My stomach plummeted, and suddenly, I was on the precipice, standing at the edge of a vast and bottomless ravine. Every cell in me craved release, craved nothingness and oblivion. Every part of me said, _Jump. Fall. Give in._

"Emmett, you rea–" I started, gritting my teeth against the crashing waves of nausea that threatened to push me over that edge.

But before I could continue, a soft baritone from somewhere behind us cut off my air and sliced my words in two.

"Mr. Cullen?"

An immediate, eerie echo played in my mind,_ "__Mr. Cullen… Sir, can you hear me? Sir? W__e're going to try to get you out and move you… Please try to stay calm." _

We both froze and then after a moment of stunned silence, slowly turned toward the door and the tired-looking man with ash at his temples dressed in all white

**~.~.~**

Motionless, I stood in the too-white and too-bright hallway on the fifth floor, staring through the glass and into the dimly lit room filled with rows of tiny acrylic beds. Most were empty, but there were a handful of newborns there, some swathed in pink, some in baby blue. For the most part, as far as I could tell, they were almost peaceful, all asleep to the gentle whir of the white noise machine in the corner.

I had no clue what time it was or how long I'd stayed. I wasn't sure how I felt, or really what I even thought. After the last few hours, my emotional space was in tatters, that much I knew, the lowest, deepest dip in the sober ride of my days and my nights.

Really, I only knew that I was dead tired and that there was no real name for the kind of exhaustion that wracked both my body and my mind. It was the kind that left me listless, half-asleep and dazed even though I was still standing.

"Son…"

Inwardly, I cringed. Digging through the memories of so many similar greetings, as if searching for my armor in a dark closet, I tried to remember my anger. I tried to focus on the endless trail of slights and condescending jabs. I tried to recall the years worth of shouting matches, followed by the long months of stony silence and isolation, all of which I'd bitterly stored away.

But for once, for some unknown reason, my anger eluded me, refusing to come to my rescue, and instead I was left with nothing more than resigned surrender.

Waiting until my father approached, I glanced at him and dipped my chin in acknowledgement, not trusting my voice, already bracing myself for whatever was to come.

"I didn't expect…" He paused to shrug off his ever-present tweed jacket, now rumpled from hours on the road. Warily, his eyes flitted back and forth between the nursery and me, and in my periphery, I could see his jaw roll before finally relaxing. A sight I'd never seen before, his right cheek sucked in as though he were chewing it. Hesitation from my father was unheard of, especially when it came to me.

Fiddling with his eyeglasses, pretending to dust off some debris that I knew wasn't really there, he went on, "I'm… it's good to see you, Edward. I'm… glad that you were here. Your brother needed that kind of… support."

My eyes widened because nothing else followed. "Yeah," I hedged before running my fingers through my mess of hair in nervous habit.

"Where's Mom?"

The toe of his oxford made a scuffing sound against the tile. "She took the car and went to their house to pick up some things for Rosalie. She's going to swing by the diner to pick up some breakfast for Emmett. And you, too."

There was an uncomfortable pang in my chest that I refused to acknowledge. I waited a minute, unsure and ill at ease, having no idea whatsoever how to actually have a conversation with the man beside me. Finally, I quietly asked, "What'd they say?"

My father shifted slightly, angling toward me even though his eyes glued themselves to the darkened room beyond the glass. There were creases at the corners that matched the rarely seen wrinkles in his dress shirt. When he answered, his tone laced with the clinical delivery of his profession, there was something more there, something unidentifiable.

"Dr. Gerandy said that Rosalie's going to be okay. They made it to the ER in time because she'd been prepared for something like this. They'll keep her for a few days for observation, but it's just for that. I looked at her charts. Honestly, she came out of surgery better than I expected when Emmett called and told me what had happened."

I slowly nodded as some small portion of the weight on my shoulders lifted.

He looked at me then, and that unidentifiable emotion was still there, only now it was visible in the paleness of his complexion and in the sharp lines that crossed his forehead.

"She's probably not going to be able to… conceive again."

I blanched and shoved my hands in my pockets to still the nearly instantaneous fidgets. Because again, like everything about this night, the scenario was far too close to home – to Bella.

As if he saw my reaction, my father cleared his throat and added, "But… everything is much better than it could have been."

"Where's the baby?" I stammered.

"They'll bring Lilly up in a few minutes. She's small because she was so early, and her lungs are weak, but she'll be just fine. Dr. Gerandy and I talked to the obstetrician. She said they'll keep her here for a couple of weeks, just to make sure. But… she's… she's okay."

Despite my fatigue, a small smile crept across my face as we watched a woman walk into the nursery – apparently a nurse, from the scrubs that she wore. In her arms, she held a tiny ball of pale pink, and then so carefully, she laid the infant down in one of the empty cribs.

My eyes stung with unexpected salt when the nurse placed the breathing tube. When she inserted the IV into that tiny, fragile wrist, I recalled Bella's words so very clearly.

_They put all these IVs in him. His little arms were so bruised. He was so thin, so fragile._

I swallowed and forced out, "But… she's all right? Like no… she's not sick?"

Surprised, my father pivoted to face me, and when I took in his expression, I didn't know what I was seeing at all. And nor could I reconcile the tone in his voice when he spoke again. I only knew that it was different than before. It was stronger, more certain, and it held some kind of conviction that I didn't understand. That unacknowledged pang in my chest resonated.

"No. She'll be perfectly normal. Beautiful." He then smiled – a real, soft smile that I hadn't seen in years – and looked beyond the glass. "In fact, she looks… she looks just like… " He trailed off as the nurse slipped away.

Everything seemed to slow to a halt.

Following his, the moment my eyes found the mass of dark, golden-brown curls beneath the tiny pink cotton cap, my knees buckled and I knew that I was swaying. Instantly, with no warning, against all my wishes and wants, blood and rotten earth tainted my tongue, and my chest compressed as though it were pinned beneath steel. Inside, my lungs tightened, squeezing all of the remaining oxygen out of me, and I could feel the angry bite of each one of the incisions tucked between my ribs. Yet even as I was gasping for air, some small part of me screamed, _This isn't about you! Stop it, damn it!_

But I couldn't help it; I couldn't stop myself. No matter how hard I struggled against myself and everything that my mind seemed hell-bent on recreating, I couldn't stop the spiraling descent. The ground beneath me gave way as I stumbled off my precarious cliff and fell into my dark ravine.

Because taped to the side of that little acrylic bed was:

_Lillian Maria Cullen_

**~.~.~**

I was floating, drifting somewhere high above myself.

I couldn't see. I couldn't speak. The sounds I heard merged into a dull roar, something almost pleasant, and it made me want to coast into quiet sleep.

The mass in my gut and the emptiness in my chest had vanished, long since gone such that I couldn't even remember the sensations at all. Dimly, I wondered if I'd just imagined their presence after all, because right now, I couldn't fathom anything other than this. Right now, there was _nothing _other than the tickle of a warm, comforting burn in my mouth and velvety heat gliding down the back of my throat.

I felt light, weightless, as though nothing could ever bring me down from my high, even as my body was numb and weighted down, collapsed and limp against something cold and hard. I felt, yet I felt nothing at all. For once, there was no time or place or bloody dreams with blood curdling screams. There were no little pink cotton caps, no doctors in white, no crying brothers. Nothing. For how long I didn't know, I simply… _floated,_ blind and drowning in mind-numbing _nothing_.

It was fucking amazing. And I tried to recall why I'd ever denied myself this. Now, I only knew that I never, ever wanted to wake up.

Some time later, maybe an hour, or maybe a year, there was some clamor nearby, something that resembled shattering glass, and then I heard a voice that I thought I knew murmuring in the background.

_Shit… Damn it, Edward! Why- What the fu-… Oh, God…_

Pleasant, indescribable warmth circled my waist, and something soft and soothing brushed through my hair. It felt like fingers, warm and supple and almost tender, yet for all my efforts, I couldn't force my eyes open to see. Instead, I could only turn my face toward them, sighing as my scalp tingled with each pass.

_Why? Why didn't you call me?_

A sudden sharp ringing by my head pierced my haze, rattling my head. It was loud and screeching, and my whole body recoiled. As if to calm me, a feather-light pressure touched my shoulder, and then the phantom fingers were again sliding through my hair. I didn't want them to ever stop.

_Angela? Shit… Thank God… He's bleeding… What do I do?_

_No, they're all at the hospital. I can't… I won't call them… _

_Should I take him? _

I swore that I recognized this voice, but I wasn't sure if it was something my mind had conjured or if she was really here. It sounded like I was underwater, like everything was muffled and drawn out. When I breathed in, all I could smell was heat and smoke and pungent spice. And my mouth, thick and uncooperative, tasted bitterness and bile.

_No, he's got some… cuts, but they're not… bad… _

_No, no… nothing like that… He was on the floor when I came in… _

_Kitchen… Just… fell, I think… a bottle broke… _

There was a long pause before more words tumbled out around me, each one slicing through my stupor until I finally had a name for my voice.

_Bella… Here…_

Something seemed to crack inside of me in recognition, and my eyes momentarily opened to blinding light and blurry shapes.

_I'm okay… he just… He scared me, Ang… _

A stifled sob spilled out near my ear, obliterating all my peace and granting me an all-too-brief second of lucidity. Hating that sound from her more than anything on earth, my arm automatically lifted to show her that I was fine, to prove that I could still reach up and touch her.

I couldn't move it more than a few inches. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed that my skin felt tacky and damp in the coolness of the room, and there was a bloom of heat in my right forearm when it smacked back down against my thigh.

"_So much… I just… I don't know if I can handle–" _she stuttered, this time the words registering far too clearly in my head._ "He's just so very… sick… He needs help… someone like you or Ben..." _

My skin began to scrape and smolder, but just as it was with my arm, my hand refused to move to scratch the burning itch beneath. My entire body ached because I _knew_ that this was all so wrong and I hated myself for it, yet I was powerless to pull myself from the depths.

_"I'm okay. I swear… if it's too much… I'll call you back… Promise… Thank you… I'll call you Monday regardless…"_

So-soft lips touched my forehead, and I felt drops of something wet running down my cheek.

"_Edward?" _She kissed me again. "_Do you know who I am?"_

"Bel-la," I slurred, already sliding back down into oblivion, even as I fought with my lids to keep them open.

I could really hear her now – her voice and all that it held. It was as if somehow speaking her name out loud afforded me a truer measure of clarity and cognizance. It was as though my head had surfaced, breaking through the column of water that had held me down.

"No, don't go back to sleep. I need to you sit up."

"Can't."

Something wet and stinging raked down the inside of my forearm. My skin suddenly burned like fire and I jerked away instinctively. A garbled, "fuck," came out of my mouth, followed by God only knew what else.

"I know it burns…" Cool air blew across my stinging flesh. "You have to let me… Look at me…"

Somehow, I opened my eyes in obedience. Everything was still so blurry, and the shapes and colors of my kitchen spun wildly. But I could see Bella's face. Framed against the overhead light, she swayed back and forth too quickly, but she was there – _here_ – and not some figment of my drunken imaginings.

This time, when my eyes closed, it wasn't because I couldn't stop them; it was because there was a wound in my chest there of my own making, and I despised myself more than I ever had. I hated that she was here and that I was me, always incapable and always unworthy.

"Bella… just… go… please…" My voice was raspy and my words ran together. But there was no heat there, only the desolation of knowing that my worst nightmare had come true.

The very thing I promised myself and silently to her, I'd broken.

"Edward, keep your eyes open… We need to get you off the floor…" She wrapped a slender arm around my waist. "Can you stand?"

"No."

Bella's hands found my face, framing my head to hold it upright. Even blurry, I could see the tracks of dark gray tears that slid down her face.

"You can't be here," I choked. Miserably, I turned into her palm even as I told her to leave.

Gently, so much so that it made me shudder and flinch away, she swiped her thumbs across the hollows of eyes, drawing moisture away.

"Shh, it's all right."

"I tried," I breathed, hiccuping. "I'm sorry."

"I know. I know you did," Bella answered. The sorrow in her voice was like a razor blade.

My head lolled, and I muttered the one thing that I knew to be true. "I'm not good for you."

"Shh," she shushed again. "That's for me to decide."

Tears that I couldn't contain leaked from the corners of my eyes, and the air I breathed was too hot, too much for my lungs.

"You can't love me back," I cried, the words falling out of my mouth.

A short punch of air hit my face. "What?" she asked. Even out of it, even falling down, blind drunk, I heard the stunned surprise.

I leaned away, trying to escape her iron grip, but she wouldn't let me go. Defeated, barely above a whisper and slurring like the goddamned drunk I was, I said the only thing I could, begging that she would finally hear and understand, "You're not supposed to love me back."

Warm fingers again combed through my hair, and there were lips pressed harshly to my cheek. Her forehead tilted forward, resting against mine, and in my ear, her voice was low and thick, "I told you, Edward. That's not up to you."

"I do lo-" I started.

Bella shook her head, silencing me. "Not now. Not like this… If you remember, tell me in the morning… and I'll say it back."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Gravity, _by John Mayer


	36. Even the Best Fall Down Sometimes

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for all that you do. You are both lovely, honest, and very speedy! ;D

* * *

_**Even the Best Fall Down Sometimes**_

* * *

I woke up disoriented and with my head pounding like a kettledrum. In time with every single beat of my too-loud heart, the pressure behind my eyes pulsed angrily, and sharp, throbbing pangs that felt as though I were being stabbed by hot fire pokers shot through my temples.

I couldn't remember the last time it'd been this bad.

Groaning, I twisted to turn on my side, hoping in vain that some change in position would alleviate the pain. As I moved, however, the inside of my forearm caught on something and suddenly, every single inch of exposed skin ignited. My eyes flew open, only to instantly close again when the too-bright light from the room nearly blinded me with a kaleidoscope of crimson and orange. That pressure behind my eyes blossomed into outright agony, obliterating the momentary inferno on my skin.

"Fuck, fuck… _fuck_," I groaned, rolling on my back again, slinging my other arm over my eyes in some effort to block out the light that still shined bright red behind my lids.

Just talking hurt, I realized. Even though my mouth was cotton-dry and unwilling to allow anything more than a hoarse rasp, it was still too loud. My throat was raw, and every time I flexed my jaw, pain radiated deep and through my teeth. It felt as though I'd been punched in the face. Repeatedly.

Wincing, I took a shallow breath through my nose to avoid moving my face. All I could smell was the stench of dried sweat mingled with the sickening sweetness of stale scotch. It was seeping out through my pores. I could taste it even – that and the sourness of stomach acid.

I smelled like shit. The taste in my mouth made me want to vomit. My head was exploding. My arm was on fire again. And when I took a silent self-inventory, noting all of the other places that protested when I dared to move – my back, my shoulder, my ribcage – I realized that _I_ hurt. Everywhere.

For a long moment, I lay there, dazed, sick, and _hurting_, not really knowing why. I only knew that judging by the smell, I'd fucked up. Exactly as I had known I would.

An ache that had nothing to do with my physical well-being settled deep in my bones.

Minutes later, still lost in my misery, something soft, cool, and damp lightly brushed across my forehead, startling me and making my whole body jump off the cushion. My muscles locked when a hand gently pushed my shoulder down, and then I heard the voice that I knew would crush me.

"Are you going to be sick?" she quietly asked.

I didn't answer at first. I couldn't because a lump appeared in my throat and a balloon expanded inside of my ribcage. Instead of speaking, my eyes squeezed tightly together and my lower lip trembled.

"Edward?"

Barely above a whisper, I finally managed, "No."

The damp cloth made another circuit over my forehead. "Are you sure?"

A little louder, but still whispering, I muttered, "Yeah, I'm sure. I think I've already done enough of that."

As much as it hurt to do so, I slowly lifted myself up, sliding into a tired, sprawling slouch against the cushion at my back. Squinting and grimacing against the light, I forced my eyes open, ignoring the unrelenting throbbing of my head and neck.

Half blind and hungover, it took me a moment to comprehend that somehow I was on my couch, most likely not a result of my own efforts. Incapable of lifting my eyes, already knowing what I'd see, I instead focused on the floor, taking in all of the evidence of my failure and humiliation: balled up towels, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, the trash can from the hallway bathroom, an open first aid kit.

The fire in my arm suddenly made sense, and when my gaze slid to my lap, I saw the white gauze loosely circling my arm, wrist to elbow. Brown-red splatter, dark underneath the white, showed where I'd been cut the deepest.

"I couldn't change it while you were asleep."

"Passed out," I mumbled, staring at the tiny squares in the thread pattern.

"What?" she asked. I noticed that Bella had moved to the chair across from me – away from me. Even though I refused to look up, the weight of her eyes was enough to send me into a tailspin.

Picking at a loose thread, I spoke the truth that she chose not to address. "You don't have to sugar coat for my sake. I wasn't asleep, Bella. You and I both know that. I _passed out_."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Even though she didn't speak, I could feel her appraising me, judging me, deeming me what I already knew I was. Mortified, scarlet warmth climbed my neck, lighting my cheeks, yet I wouldn't dare insult her by offering some excuse. There was none. After three and some odd weeks of sobriety, I knew that much.

"I'm sorry," I blurted, squeezing my fists against the silence I couldn't stand anymore.

"I know."

Her voice was so quiet that I almost didn't hear.

Shaking my head, I huffed in aggravation, "You always say that when I fuck up."

Bella didn't answer immediately, and I was left wondering, waiting for her to realize and see and send me packing. Instead, all I heard was the creak of leather when she shifted in her chair.

Finally, just when I was on the brink of losing my goddamned mind, in a too-soft voice that pinned my back to the cushion, she said, "Then what? What do you want to hear?

"I don-" I started to say, but she didn't give me a chance to speak.

"That I'm happy about finding you like that? Or that I'm not angry at you for scaring me? Because I am.

"There's no way that I'm telling you that I think everything is okay. It's not... You're not _fine_, Edward, even though I understand why… But I don't know just how much I should say to you. It's not like I'm some expert! Just because I know some–…" She sounded so frustrated… with herself, with me, with everything. But mostly with me. "Even if I were… I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. I can't force you…"

Bella paused, as if gathering herself, and there was another creak of leather. I glanced up for just a moment. My chair swallowed her, making her look small and frail. As if contemplating her words, her eyes were closed, the hollows beneath darkened by missed hours of sleep. There were lines across her forehead, and her lips were mashed and straight. As my focus again dropped, I couldn't help but notice ten slender fingers laced together, squeezing tightly enough that her knuckles were white.

"I don't know if you see just how sick you are," she whispered. "How you're going to kill yourself if you don't find a way to stop. If you can't find a way to deal with what happened."

I flinched as if struck, but I couldn't seem to find my tongue to correct her. Instead, I could only gape at the floor, trying to recover while only halfway hearing the rest. My head pounded a hard, _No, no, no,_ despising the image that I wouldn't forget until the day I died – a pale, slim wrist marred by sadness and grief.

"Not like I did," Bella went on, waving at empty air, as if she somehow knew the tenor of my thoughts, as if she could hear my silent incredulity and horror. "Just slowly. Over time. _That_ is what you're doing to yourself because you can't forgive yourself."

"I– but… It's not," I stammered, fumbling over words I couldn't form.

Cutting me off again, but still in that so-soft voice that unnerved me so much more than if she'd yelled, she pushed, "Do you want me to tell you that I wish more than anything that you'd talk to someone? That I wish that you'd try to get some help? And I don't mean that idiot therapist who just drugged you up years ago. I mean someone who actually knows what they're doing.

"Is that what you want me to say, Edward? What should I be saying to you right now? What do you want to hear?"

I swallowed, hating the sharp edge of tired anger simmering beneath her words. I didn't know what to think, how to face this side of her – a harder, bitter side that I hadn't quite seen before. I didn't know how to respond to her questions either, not because I didn't want to, but because I just didn't know the answer.

Maybe I expected her to yell. Or maybe I expected her to tell me what my father always told me. Or maybe what I told myself.

"I don't know," I breathed, roughly shoving my hand through my hair.

She sighed and I could hear the anger bleeding into sorrow. "Do you want to talk? About what happened at the hospital?"

Hesitating, still reeling from her quiet rant, I traced a figure eight on the couch cushion beside me, considering how to even begin to tell her things I didn't know myself.

"Not really…"

"Ed–"

There was that edge again, that frustration and anger, so much worse coming from her. Years of ingrained defense kicked in, making my palm smack the couch and my mouth snap a hard response before I could stop it. "Goddamn it, Bella! No, I don't want to talk. I don't remember, okay?"

I wasn't sure which one of us recoiled first, but the room went deathly still. Hearing the heat that she didn't deserve, my shoulders sagged, and the pounding in my head marched in double time.

"_Shit_. Shit, shit, shit." My fingers jammed into the tops of my thighs. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at me, okay. I'm just so pissed off… at me… not you. Never you."

Lifting my face to the ceiling, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, reaching for some semblance of calm. Of all the people to snap at, I chose her, the one person who didn't deserve any of this, because I was so goddamned disgusted and angry with myself.

I looked at her then and saw the sadness that I'd put there. "It's not that I don't want to tell you… I just… don't remember all of it."

She nodded slowly, as if I hadn't just yelled at her at all. "What do you remember?"

"Just bits and pieces," I answered, my voice sinking as I sifted through images and sounds that felt more like broken dreams than memories.

"_Dad? I think I'm just… going to go… home," I finally managed, still staring at the name that caused my insides to twist and writhe. I needed to go. I needed to leave before I collapsed then and there on the hospital floor. I needed to escape before I managed to undo everything, before he could see me fall. While I still had at least a little dignity and while his last memory would be of something other than me fucking up for once._

"_Edward? Are you all right?"_

_No. No, I'm not, I wanted to scream, but instead I just nodded and turned on my heel, asking him to tell Mom that I'd try to come back later, that I was tired. _

_He looked at me strangely, as though he wanted to say something more, but reluctantly chose to remain quiet. "I'll- okay, I'll see you later, son. Drive safely." _

That was the last coherent conversation I had, that I could remember. Staring down at Bella's tennis shoes dangling off the chair, I tried to dredge up whatever else I could, to find the pieces that led me from there to here, but my memory, eaten away by the numbness I'd sought, was now little more than a blurred collection of fragments in time.

_In the parking lot, my heart slamming into my chest… my lungs squeezing and clenching for air… _

_The hum of an engine… twin yellow lines jumping off the pavement… the tingling rush of speed and acceleration through turn after turn until the screech of brakes on gravel… _

_The slam of a car door… mist hitting my face and wet dew splattering tan leather dark… the thump of shoes on wood and then the squeak of the screen door's hinges…_

_Catching the light from the overhead fixture, in and out of focus, a shiny gold label… the smoothness and coolness of crystal in my hand… _

_Burning and spices and finally nothing… sweet, blessed numbness that blocked out everything else and stilled my trembling…_

Somewhere hidden in the back of my mind, I heard Bella's voice, snippets of anxious words and phrases that I had no hope of actually recalling. I'd been too drunk, too far gone to remember now.

"Why- why did you come here?" I rasped, forcing my head up to look at her again, to meet whatever I deserved from her.

"You didn't call," she said simply, her shoulders shrugging as if her answer made all the sense in the world. "I was worried about you."

"How long?"

Her head tilted, as if not following. "How long what?"

Licking dry, cracked lips, I slowly asked again, "How long have you been here?"

"Since around lunch."

Outside through the window, red and yellow leaves fluttered past the glass, bright in the afternoon sun. It was a rare autumn day with no rain and only a few cottony clouds.

It didn't make sense. At all.

"What time is it now?"

She looked over my shoulder. "Your clock says almost four."

I nodded stupidly, trying to process what she was telling me. It felt as though I were trying to add two and two and coming up with three instead of four.

"Since lunch… _yesterday_."

_Yesterday. _That one word hit me like a wrecking ball, harder than anything else she'd said. Immediately, as though kicked in the stomach, my body crumpled and folded forward, my head hung low, barely managing to prop myself up on my knees. My chest felt as though a lead-weighted anvil had been placed square in the middle, left there to slowly crush me, to push out all of my air and crack my bones.

I should have realized, but for some reason my mind hadn't accepted what had been perfectly obvious from the moment I woke up. She'd been here for _hours_. All night and all day. She'd seen everything. She'd dealt with everything. With me. _Alone._

"But how did you-?" I blurted, unsure of what I was even asking.

She finished for me. "Get in?"

"Yeah," I panted out, unable to find any air.

"You'll need to have your window replaced." Bella smiled a small, sad smile as she fingered the edge of her t-shirt – one of _my_ t-shirts, stained with my blood, I vaguely noted.

Shell-shocked, hearing an echo of shattering glass – a dim memory – I could only stare mutely.

It was Bella who looked down then, uncertain and wavering, before gently shaking her head.

"Like I said… you didn't call. When I…" She started and stopped, her attention briefly turning toward the kitchen behind me. And then as if that one look released the dam, words came pouring out so quickly I struggled to keep up. "You didn't pick up your cell… And I called at least three or four times. I knew about the hospital… I was afraid of what happened… and I just was… worried about you." I watched her hands wring. "And then you wouldn't come to the door when I knocked. Your car was there, so I knew and I just…

"When I looked through the window, there was a puddle of scotch and broken glass on the floor and there was… blood on the counter. I could only see your legs… you were just… laying there…" Her eyes bore into mine. They were shining and even across the room, I could see the moisture pooled on her bottom lids, threatening to spill. "I… didn't_ know_. It scared me. So I just… had to..."

"I'm sorry," I repeated for the thousandth time, closing my eyes and flexing my hand, feeling an almost satisfying jab of pain, inside and out. I deserved so much more than that.

"I know," she said again. "I know you are, Edward. But-"

"I tried," I stammered, feeling my heart fly, battering against my lungs.

"Tried what?"

I flexed my arm again to feel the burn on my skin. "To stop. For three and a half fucking weeks…"

"Why?" she asked, and the question hung in the air, defying gravity.

Lowly and ashamed, I murmured, "Because I wanted to be enough... I _want_ to be enough…"

"Be enough for what?" Bella groaned, frustration eating through her calm exterior. "I don't get–"

I dropped my head and palmed the back of my neck. "For you. You shouldn't have seen this. You shouldn't have to deal with this. I don't want you to. It's… just…it's so fucking ha–"

"Edward, you can't–"

"I'll try again."

"What? Why–"

"I love you, okay?"

My head whipped up, panicked because the words I'd fought to hide were loose, spoken without my permission and now echoing in the silence. My chest throbbed in time with the hammer in my head.

Taking a deep breath, softly, I went on, pretending as though I couldn't see the disbelieving look on her face, "I shouldn't. I _should _leave you alone so that I don't hurt you again." I closed my eyes, feeling recalled droplets of water falling and splashing on my face and behind my closed lids, I saw the now invisible tracks of those shed tears, streaking her pale cheeks dark.

She opened her mouth as if to dispute me. With a firmness that came from somewhere I couldn't comprehend, I added, "And don't tell me I didn't, Bella. Don't say that. I _know_ I fucked up and I _know_ that I managed to hurt you in the process, not just scare you. I do remember that much. I remember you crying. Because of me… I _hurt_ you. Just like I knew I would… You just… shouldn't have to deal with my fucked up shit."

I sighed as a stab of pain in my chest threatened to split me open. "I _should_ stay away from you…I know I should…" I confessed, halfway to myself, the resignation bitter on my tongue. "But God help me, I _can't_. I don't _want_ to. Ever.

"Tell me to leave you alone, Bella. Tell me to fuck off and I will."

My gaze again fell to the floor, unable to bear whatever I'd see in her eyes or in her face. Pity. Revulsion. God only knew.

"No, I won't tell you that," she whispered back. "I love you, too."

There was a sharp pant of air, and my head shook back and forth in my hands, stunned and unbelieving, loathing and loving the words I'd stupidly, selfishly wanted to hear. Horrified by the implications, by the knowledge that I had no fucking idea what I was doing, my hands trembled, even as a warmth I hadn't felt in so very long spread through my aching body.

"You can't say that!" I sputtered, begging her to take it back, scared of what it meant if I failed again.

Bella slowly stood up. She crossed the feet between us, coming close enough that I had to lift off my knees so that she could stand between them. Lips parted into a small smile, her fingers wound through my hair and gently tilted my face up to look at her, holding my head steady so that I couldn't turn away.

"I love you, too," she repeated. "Don't hide from me. Let me help you."

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Until I couldn't take it any more. I surrendered, finally exhaling the heavy breath I'd forgotten to release. My arms wound around her thighs, pulling her closer, and I pressed my face against her stomach, ignoring the crimson stains of my folly. She held me close, cradling me, as I whispered again, "I'll try. Let me try again. _Please_."

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Collide, _by Howie Day


	37. You Keep Coming Back for More

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. I missed you two these past couple of weeks! :)

* * *

_**You Keep Coming Back for More**_

* * *

"You're distracting me," she accused, batting my roaming fingers away.

How she thought I would do anything else was beyond me.

To make a point, I trailed the tip of my finger between her breasts, following the line of a streaking droplet. It was damned near mesmerizing in the way that it slid down her stomach to the juncture of her hip and thigh.

That one little image was all it took – a reminder of exactly what lay between her thighs. More than enough to make me hard, it made my stomach tighten and ache until all I could think about was her and how much I wanted to spread her out across my bed so that I could make her squirm beneath me. Now that that part of me had awoken, I wanted it all: the bite of her nails raking across my shoulder blades, the humid pants against my neck, the little noises that she didn't even know she made. And more than anything on earth, after the day I'd had, selfishly, I wanted that all-too-brief moment where I could lose myself inside her – no thinking, just _feeling_. That second of freefall. _Fuck_, I wanted that.

Feigning as much indifference as I could muster, I shrugged as I followed another line of falling water. This one meandered further to the left, teasing me to follow. When my fingertip skirted the swell of her breast, cheating at the last second to graze her nipple, her skin pebbled, even under the hot spray, and there was a faint hitch in her breathing. That it wasn't just me affected filled me with a sense of power I rarely experienced.

"You're naked, Bella," I murmured, incapable of hiding my wandering eyes. "And you're wet. What did you think would happen? I mean, I am a guy. You realize that, right?" There was no way in hell that I could hide that little bit of self-satisfaction in my smirk.

Amused at either my eagerness or me, Bella's lips twitched, fighting the smile I wanted to see. Just as I opened my mouth to say more – to beg maybe – she grinned that full-face grin of hers that did strange things to my insides. When I raised my brows in mock challenge, that grin somehow widened even more, and she finally laughed.

Her laugh, echoing off the tile and filling the steamy room, was nearly my undoing. And my heart gave an unexpected hard thump against the wall of my chest.

Because I had _missed_ that sound and not even realized it.

But I didn't want to go down that road right now. I didn't want to think about that. So instead, I took a deep, hot breath through my nose and tried my damnedest to not dwell on the fact that this was the first time I'd heard her laugh all week.

Since _that_ afternoon when I was passed out on my kitchen floor and she had broken a window because she had been scared, thinking the worse. Since the day my mouth blabbed what I had not wanted to say out loud. Since she told me that she loved me back.

_She_ loved _me_.

"I don't know," Bella sighed, drawing the words out, thankfully interrupting my emotional gymnastics in the process. A finger jabbed my sternum. "I thought that we'd maybe… take a shower? And I _thought_ that you said you were starving and wanted to grab some dinner..."

Bella's expression turned comically serious and I wanted to laugh. But her own body betrayed her, and that jabbing finger slid south to where it was joined by nine other searing fingertips. The muscles in my abdomen quivered when her nails scratched across my skin. She knew _exactly_ what that did to me.

Cocking her head_, knowing_ the way I responded to her, Bella went on, "So… I guess we should hurry up and get out, right?"

Dropping my hands to her waist, I gently pulled her close enough that she had to lift her face to look up at me. Eyes dark and always deep, Bella stared directly at me with a depth of emotion that I swore I didn't think I'd ever deserve. It was like looking into something too bright, and I immediately wanted to drop my chin and avert my eyes.

But I didn't. I didn't look away because like I told her I would, for once, I was _trying_. Trying _everything_. As exhausting and hard as it was, I was trying to stay sober, trying to stop my own self-destruction, trying to be more than what I was, and more than anything, trying to be enough to keep her. Because I loved her and because for some reason I still couldn't grasp, she loved me, I was just… fucking _trying_.

Again.

Slowly – purposefully – I leaned down and brushed my lips across hers, swiping my tongue over the warm wetness that had gathered there. When Bella didn't protest, instead of pushing into her mouth like I knew she wanted, I dragged my lips down her jaw to her neck. Hot from the shower and steam, her skin was so soft and slick against my mouth and tongue, reminding me immediately of the way her whole body felt sliding under mine.

While my head spun with visions of having her right here, right now, against the tile wall if I had to, another compulsion grabbed me. One a little less selfish maybe. Or maybe more.

"Later, okay?" I finally whispered, all teasing gone as I swept heavy, wet hair off of her shoulder so that I could find my favorite spot. "For now… let me."

"Let you what?" Bella murmured, closing her eyes and gasping softly when I sucked on her skin. Her voice was shaky and low and her nails dug sharply into my stomach, leaving faint, crescent-shaped marks.

Instead of immediately answering, I guided us both out of the spray until her back hit tile.

When I caught a pale pink nipple between my lips, her chest expanded and she arched into me, pushing against my mouth. When I bit down a little with my teeth and suckled, making it hard and round, she gasped again, this time louder, and she moaned something that sounded vaguely like my name.

Some not-so-small part of me reveled in the fact that _I_ could do this to _her_, that I could make her shake and groan my name. That I could make her come unglued. Because _t__his_ – being with Bella, making her come – was one small thing I knew I could do for her. When we were together like this, everything else faded away. There was no scotch or trembling hands, nor was there a broken family that didn't know how to mend. There were no past lives or inconsolable deaths. Now, like this, it was just her and me. And it was the closest thing to normal that I'd had in years. I wanted it with her every day, so, _so _much.

"Let me do this," I breathed, my voice even softer as I fell to my knees to kiss first her stomach, then the slope of each hip. Bella's palms dropped to the top of my head and her fingers threaded through my hair, pulling sharply before pushing it off my forehead.

"May I?" I asked again, not really waiting for her assent. Gently, not taking my eyes off of her face, I spread her thighs so that I could circle my thumb over her clit. At contact, she jerked, and over the relentless thump of water against marble, I heard her suck in a harsh breath.

I watched in some kind of half-wonder as her head tilted back against the wall. Eyes screwed shut, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. As though she were afraid that speaking aloud would break the spell, Bella nodded slowly as her grip in my hair tightened, tugging me closer.

I wasn't sure how many minutes I spent on my knees, licking, rubbing, and sucking, watching her quiver and shake with each change in angle or pace. This was different than when we had sex because while my dick was hard and fucking begging for some kind of release, I could focus solely on her. Now, I could see everything. I could concentrate on what she looked like when I touched her the right ways in the right places, what she tasted like on my tongue, what she felt like when she lost it.

When the tips of my two fingers crooked and found that secret spot deep inside, her eyes went blank and her lips dropped into a silent moan as every muscle in her body seemed to lock down. Feeling her come against my mouth like that was erotic and so intimate, like it was some special thing that only I got to see, and all I knew was that I wanted to give it to her like that over and over.

"Edward," she finally whispered, breathless, still leaning back against the tile as though she would fall without it there. From the steam or from me, I wasn't sure, her skin was flushed and her chest was heaving. To me, she was something out of a dream.

"Okay?" I asked, pressing my lips to her inner thigh before slowly rising. My knees protested, but the blissed-out look on her face erased any discomfort of mine.

Bella didn't say a word. Instead, my answer came in the form of her flinging herself at me the moment I straightened. Mashing her mouth to mine like I'd just given her the world, she kissed me in ways that made my forearms immediately tighten, pleading to lift her up and position her thighs around my waist just like they had been that first night after Emmett's wedding.

Her lips were so soft and full, aligned against mine just right, and the sensual in and out rhythm of her tongue nearly killed me. Lost in sensation, listening to her little whimper-sighs, I groaned and my hips involuntarily flexed, pressing my dick against the soft skin of her stomach. Before I could even contemplate pulling back, however, Bella's slender fingers suddenly wrapped around me, scattering my wits. And like a goddamned teenager, I was instantly falling apart to the rhythmic jerk of her hand, stroking in time to the slide of her tongue.

"No– you don't… have… fuck… to," I stuttered against her mouth, even as I recalled all too well the times I'd jacked off to this same fantasy. This – the reality of it – was _so much_ better.

"Be quiet," Bella murmured, smiling at my incoherence. "Let me, too."

Obediently, powerless to argue when she had me in her hand like that, I slumped against the wall, pulling her with me. When her wrist sped, twisting around my head on the upstroke, my eyes damned near rolled back in my head. It was like some kind of vicious-sweet torture with half of me wanting to explode right then and there and the other half wanting to hold off as long as I could so that it wouldn't end.

"Jesus, I'm close," I muttered, dropping my forehead to her shoulder so I could see what she was doing to me. Without thinking, I reached down between us, targeting her breasts, wanting to feel the weight and softness of them in my hands.

_Bella _was all I could feel, all that I could smell – everywhere around me. When I licked my lips, I could still taste her – clean and sexy and _girl_ – from before and I abruptly felt drunk, high on pure sensation. The steam in my lungs paled against the heat in my abdomen and tightening of my balls.

When I buried my face in her neck, she squeezed me, just a little harder, as if she knew exactly what I wanted – what I needed to fall over the edge. Blood rushed through my veins, whining in my ears, and my heart seemed to pound against my ribcage. She squeezed one more time, and, no longer capable of holding off, with a garbled curse and a blast of color behind my eyelids, I spasmed long and hard against her stomach.

A minute later, or maybe a day, somehow we found ourselves on the shower floor, my back against the tile, her wedged between my legs and leaning back against my chest. My fingers traced some mindless pattern on the inside of her arm.

For a long while, we were quiet, just listening to the soothing patter of water against marble. All around us, gray mist swirled and eddied, spiraling upward and softening the sharp edges of the glass door and beyond. Gradually, lulled into relaxation, my heart rate slowed, and when I breathed in, sucking down lungfuls of steam, the air smelled clean, untainted by anything from the outside. Abstractedly, I wondered whether, if I stayed in here long enough and if I breathed deeply enough, it could somehow clean me on the inside, too.

"How was today?" Bella quietly asked, finally breaking the stillness.

Startled, my shoulders tensed without my permission, any and all relief vanishing at those three seemingly innocuous little words. Normal words. My mouth was suddenly dry, and despite all my desires to the contrary, I struggled to find an answer that didn't make my stomach roll in anxiety.

"Not the best?" she guessed, her voice so soft that I barely heard it over the noise of the shower and the whir of the overhead fan. Picking up my hand, Bella slowly drew the crevices of my palm, repeatedly following the longest line.

Light and languid, her touch was meant to be soothing. I knew that. Only instead, because of who I was, its necessity just reminded me of my inadequacy, my fucked up mind, and, never mind all my trying, just how far away from _normal_ I still was. For once, I was glad that her back was to me; God only knew what my expression held.

"Not the worst," I mumbled before gently touching my lips to the top of her shoulder, silently trying to make her understand that it wasn't her fault that I couldn't have a normal conversation without falling apart or turning into some idiot basketcase. It was me; _always_, it was me. Tongue thick and fumbling, I tried to come up with some excuse. "I just don't wa–"

Sensing the strain I couldn't voice, however, like she somehow always managed to do, Bella saved me from myself.

"I talked to Alice today."

The change in subject was jarring and too obvious, but nonetheless, my shoulders instantly released and fell in gratitude. My whole body seemed to unclench, and inwardly, I sighed in relief.

"Yeah?" I kissed her other shoulder, letting my lips linger against her skin, and I looped my ankles over hers.

Bella shifted, leaning deeper into my chest. "She's coming back for Christmas, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," I answered, recalling that night in Port Angeles all too well. "You two were planning to cut down a tree or some shit."

Bella's shoulders shook with silent laughter. "You know, she's pretty excited about that. She said she's already picked out her 'attire'. Not kidding, I think it involves plaid."

It was my turn to laugh, my earlier abrupt anxiety somehow fading _just enough_ for me to mean it. "Let me guess… Lumberjack-chic?"

Laughing outright, Bella tried to fake a huff. "Hey, it's not like you get to do much of that in Arizona or Florida. Or where she is in California, either. Call it a novelty, I guess."

I crossed my arms around her waist and rested my chin on top of her shoulder. "You probably want snow, too, right? Like the whole White Christmas thing with Bing Crosby and all?"

"Of course," she answered, turning her face to the side. Staring straight into mine, her eyes were dark, nearly unreadable. But there _was_ something there, something more serious than our conversation that I didn't quite recognize. For a split second, it looked like sadness or maybe _longing_ – for the present or for the past, I didn't know – and I immediately wanted it gone. That kind of look didn't belong on her face. Slowly, wanting to banish away whatever it was, I kissed her, once and then twice, closed-mouth and softly.

When she smiled again, I grinned and tried to divert her from whatever it was that haunted her. "Snow sucks, _Bel-la_."

Shaking her head, a chuckle spilled out, and then she popped my wrist in play. "Snow – I'll have you know – is a hell of a lot better than perpetual rain_, Ed-ward_."

"Okay, true," I acquiesced, inwardly grateful that I could at least make her laugh again. "You're right. Rain in January blows. It's cold as fuck."

"See? Told you. And snow is… I don't know… beautiful. It makes everything look clean and perfect. It hides all the ugly."

There was no argument for that.

For a long moment, we were quiet again. When I looked down at my skin, it was wrinkled and pale from being under the water. The tile was hard and my tailbone was starting to ache. Yet for all that, I still couldn't bring myself to want to leave.

I wondered how differently this trip would go, especially since it would be Christmas. More so, I wondered just how little of Bella I'd see – if this would be like her sister's first visit. I didn't want to think about what else holiday time meant just yet – about whom I would have to see, about conversations I'd no doubt have to have, about all the memories that would inevitably surface, all of which I'd be experiencing… _sober_. No, I didn't want to think about that right now, because surely, if I went down that path, I'd wind up with shaky palms and a burning esophagus.

So this time it was me who broke the silence. "So… how long will she be here?"

Spinning sideways, still between my legs, Bella glanced up at me before laying her head against my shoulder. "Maybe like last time," she said softly. "I doubt she'll be here more than two weeks. She has work, you know."

I didn't understand the softness of her voice or the unexpected sag in her shoulders. "Are you okay with that? I know that last time…"

"Yeah. I'm okay with it. I think…" Bella sighed and hugged my chest. For a second, I wasn't sure what to do with my hands – what kind of comforting she wanted or needed. Or why she needed it to begin with. "I think she's really looking forward to it."

I shrugged, still bemused. "She misses you."

"Maybe… but…" Bella hesitated.

"What?"

"I'm not sure how much I should say…"

Of course, my insides lurched the moment she answered, plummeting in yet another valley of the roller coaster ride of my days. My eyes closed, but at least this time, by some grace of God, the rest of my body didn't betray me.

Part of me wanted to laugh. At the situation. At myself for trying to push away one unpleasant topic in exchange for another.

But she didn't have to say any more. There was no need. Because somewhere, deep down, I knew what she was going to say – that Alice didn't approve of her dating me, that I wasn't good for Bella, that she was better off without me, and that I'd eventually drag her down to my depths. And if that were the case, I couldn't even be angry with her sister because there was no way in hell that I could argue with her.

Bella just didn't know how to tell me – how I'd react.

Carefully, not really wanting to ask at all, I muttered, "What do you mean?"

"She's kind of…" Bella's lips twisted and her nose scrunched. "Dating someone now."

Instant confusion descended, and that knotty tangle of emotion in the pit of my stomach didn't know whether to relent or tighten. "Kind of?" I managed. "You don't _kind of_ date people. But what does that have to do with Christmas anyway?"

Bella's chin dropped and for once, she was the one not answering.

"Just… " I fumbled, anxiously wiping water off my face, aggravated at everything about this conversation. "I don't know… just fucking spit it out."

Bella looked up and her brows knitted together. "He kind of… lives here."

It took me a moment to follow what she was trying to say, but eventually, realization dawned, washing through my entire body. Any other time, any other place, I would have expected to have been floored by that kind of admittance.

Or bothered.

Or pissed off.

Or something other that what I actually felt.

Strangely, so fucking thankful that Bella's trepidation had nothing to do with her and me – with _us_ – I felt none of that. I only felt profound relief mingled with the urge to shake her for not telling me to begin with. Of course, I knew why she didn't.

"You've got to be kidding me," I chuckled, astounded by the surge of reprieve that allowed me to breathe again.

Bella's brows climbed in surprise. "Are you mad?"

Fidgeting just a little, my laughter ceased and I quickly responded with a quiet and surprisingly _honest_, "No."

I scrubbed my face, buying time – trying to find some way to articulate exactly what it was I did feel and why. "It's… _different_ than what I thought you were going to say. And okay, fine, I don't quite know what to think about… Jasper and… your sister. Maybe it's a little unexpected…" Thinking back to Bella's birthday dinner, I remembered the familiar way he'd touched her and the way he'd looked at her, so different yet so similar to how he used to be around Maria.

"But no… " I repeated, shaking my head. "I'm not _angry_…"

"I'm glad," Bella breathed, her own relief palpable.

"You were afraid that I'd freak out." There was no question in that statement.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I'm so–"

Interrupting, despising what she was about to say, I brushed wet strands away from her face. "Don't be… You don't need to be sorry for anything. It's fine. I'm fine. I can deal with him. With them. I'm not…" I trailed off, thinking, not really understanding myself.

I stared up at the gray mist raining down. Softer, more to myself than to Bella, I added, haltingly, "I'm not… really angry with Jasper… Not anymore."

Something not altogether unpleasant fluttered in my stomach when I realized that I wasn't really lying.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Keep on Tryin', _by Poco


	38. The Sun is Out and Up and Down Again

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen, who always seems to be awake… even when I email her at like 2:30 in the morning. Thank you to Scooterstale, ILY.

* * *

_**The Sun is Out and Up and Down Again**_

* * *

_White_ glared back me.

Frozen at the mouth of the elevator, for what felt like forever, all I could do was stare at those same white walls, white tiles, white lab coats, and violet-white lights. Just like the last time I treaded these halls, it was everywhere I looked, surrounding me from all sides – that unforgiving, clinical starkness that smelled of antiseptic and death. And just like last time, just being here – inside these walls and breathing this air – nearly took me to my knees.

Drowning in _white_, my voice was lost to me. My limbs, weighed down and heavy, refused to obey and my mind spun like a top as it silently tried its damnedest to bottle and contain the anxiety that threatened to fracture my ribcage.

And of course, this time, knowing what lay down the hall and beyond the far oak doors – waiting – just made everything that much worse, compounding my stress into something truly palpable. It was something living and writhing beneath my skin – something that made some part of me instantly crave that numbness that I now swore to reject.

Yet for all my internal warring and panic, I was powerless to make it all stop or escape the wrath of my own mind's making. For despite all my better judgment and reasoning, despite being terrified of failure, of reliving that same outcome – the one that I couldn't tolerate her suffering again – I was _here_. And _trying._

Again.

Because the woman next to me, squeezing my hand in calm reassurance, had given me no choice.

When she whispered my name, her voice was so soft – so quiet compared to the loudness of my thoughts – that I barely even heard her. But somehow, it was just enough to pull me away from the sinking depths and to unlock my joints. My lungs released a shaky breath I'd unknowingly held.

"Edward," Bella repeated again, gliding her thumb across the back of my hand. Every place her skin contacted mine felt warmer than the rest of me. "You didn't have to come here with me."

"Yes, I did," I murmured back, forcing a small smile that was nothing but a lie.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and concerned, hesitating before she answered. "No, you didn't. If you don't think–"

"It's okay. It's fine," I pressed, even though I had no idea if it was or not.

"Why–"

A split second of irrational anger, or maybe it was bitterness – or _something_ – sent a flood of warmth up my neck, burning through my veins. Strung too tight, before I could stop myself, loud and sharp, I snapped, "I just need to, okay?"

When Bella went rigid beside me, I cringed inside. Her thumb paused its soothing circles and instead dug between the bones on the back of my hand. I risked a glance, instantly seeing that telltale crease across her forehead. Her lips were mashed together in a firm line, saying everything that she didn't voice aloud. But fuck, I didn't need her tells; I was already there, silently cursing myself all over again.

Shoulders slumped, I sighed and looked down at my feet. "Sorry... Christ, I'm always saying that…" Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, saying that I was sorry the only other way I knew, I whispered, "I just… hate hospitals, okay? Especially this one. Can we… not talk about it? And just… get this over with?"

Nodding, her face still pinched, Bella simply said, "I understand." I was on the verge of apologizing again, hating that I couldn't stop myself from unleashing on her – Bella, of all people – but then her thumb resumed its calm circling, this time sweeping a wider path. A moment later, softer, she added, "They make me anxious, too."

"Yeah," I breathed, not knowing what else to say. Because I could respond to that no easier than I could answer the question that made me snap at her to begin with: _why_. _Why_ I had to be here with her. _Why_ I'd insisted on subjecting myself to this all-white mindfuck yet again.

I couldn't tell her that I wanted to prove something to myself, to push myself, and that maybe deep down, I wanted to try to be at least a shadow of the brother that I hadn't been over the last few years. All of that was true. But while it sounded good, none of it was what was keeping me here right now. If I were being honest, my presence in this godawful place had very little to do with me and what I wanted. Instead, it had everything to do with _her_.

For a second, head still bowed, I closed my eyes, remembering all too well the exchange that had kept me awake half the night, dreading this very situation.

_"Is it always this cold?" she whispered, shivering ever so slightly. Bundled in one of my old Dartmouth long-sleeved shirts – three sizes too big and hanging down to her knees – Bella huddled close against my side. Her hair was still a little damp from the shower, and strands of it stuck to my skin._

_Sometime between the afternoon and the night, a cold front had come through, bringing with it air that felt more like an Alaskan winter than a Forks autumn. Even though I'd turned up the furnace, the house's heating system was old and slow, and despite the weight of the blanket, the room was still a few degrees away from comfortable. _

_I winced when her toes burrowed between my knee and the mattress. "Your feet are like damned ice cubes. Did you know that?" _

_"It's cold, and you're warm!" I thought I heard her muffle a laugh before I felt five frozen fingers flatten against my stomach. _

_"For God's sake, woman, you're trying to kill me, aren't you?" I whined, flinching again, even as my arm tightened around her shoulder, pulling her closer. "I thought you said you wanted snow. What are you going to do this winter?" _

_"I did. I do. I think," Bella waffled, sliding her freezing fingers to my side, unconsciously ghosting over the incision scars tucked between my ribs. "You'll just have to give me more clothes to wear at night."_

_It was my turn to laugh because my clothes swallowed her whole, and, frankly, I'd rather pay double the fuel oil bill than have her wear more clothes. But then when she shivered again, more seriously, I added, "Just give it a few minutes."_

_For a long while, neither of us ready to fall asleep, we simply laid there, tangled up together in the dark. Through the open blinds, pale white moonlight streamed in, and when I looked through the window I could see that the sky was clearer than it had been in weeks – no clouds, just dark navy velvet with a thousand points of twinkling light._

_It was pleasant, just being – so different from the daylight hours. It was so much so that it took me a while to recognize that in our silence, Bella was holding back, not asking me the questions that she wanted to ask, content to allow me the space she thought that I needed. _

_But I wasn't content. Still a little high off of my own self-realizations – that maybe, just maybe, my mind could… get a little better over time – I wasn't content at all. Because again, I was trying. And if she could tell me about Alice and Jasper, as uncomfortable as it had been for her, I could at least tell her something. Maybe I could explain why I'd been such a mess in the shower when she'd done nothing but ask about my day. _

_Fighting back the plunging feeling in my stomach, my fingertips ran down the middle of her back, brushing over worn cotton. "I talked to Emmett today. That's what I didn't tell you before."_

_Her head lifted off my chest and her eyes slid up to mine. "Yeah?" There was an unmistakable note of hopefulness in her voice. "How's…"_

_I swallowed. "Lilly's fine."_

_"Rose?"_

_"Good." I looked out the window again. "She's being released tomorrow. Lilly needs to stay… just a couple more weeks."_

_The silence was deafening. And I didn't need to see Bella's face to read the ache that I knew was there. Longing for what would never be poured off of her in waves, crashing into me, and I had no idea how to stop it or make her feel whole. _

_"But she's fine?" Bella quietly asked again, finally. _

_"Yes." My answer was swift, instinctively understanding the need to assuage her worst fears. "They're just making sure. But it's fine. She'll be healthy. Emmett said that Dad…" I paused and sucked in a shallow breath through my nose as, without warning, something sharp and unexpected stabbed me in the chest. "He's…" I continued after a second, clearing my throat. "He's checking on her." _

_"I'm glad," Bella whispered, laying her head back down on my shoulder. "I was scared for Rose. For the baby." _

_"I know. Everyone was," I managed, mentally shying away from the memories of that night in the waiting room – the fear that all but consumed my brother, the exhaustion in my father's face… and most of all, that moment of shattered wonder when my brain recognized my dead sister in my newborn niece. _

_"Edward?" _

_Gently, I combed hair away from her face. "Yeah?"_

_"I want to go visit her." Bella paused before lifting her head to look up at me again. Even in the darkened room, her eyes were wide and bright, reflecting liquid light back at me. And I knew that the shine there had nothing to do with the moonlight. She hugged my waist before continuing. "I know it's not something you should do. And I'm not asking you to go back there. I don't want you to. But… I'd like to see her."_

"Ready?" Bella asked, just above a whisper.

When I opened my eyes, wrenching myself back into the present, and looked down, she smiled.

Despite all my shortcomings, I wasn't blind, however; that small smile was a much a lie as my own. In the glaring, violet light, her features were tense and drawn, her eyes were dark, ringed with smudges of gray, and hiding beneath the upturn of her lips, I stared into a mirror of my own anxiety – so different from mine yet so similar.

I _hated_ that Bella was here, that she was purposefully doing this to herself. I hated the fear that it caused in me; it was the same fear that had made me come here alone that night. Because right now, seeing the stress she was trying so hard to hide, all I could think about was her crying on the bed beside me weeks ago, telling me how she once begged God to take her son away, and right now, all my eyes could see was that goddamned angry line running down the inside of her wrist.

More than anything, I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and pull her back into that elevator in some kind of effort to protect us both. I wanted to take her back to the warmth and security of her little house and hide away for a while – maybe for eternity. I wanted to forget everything she told me that night.

But I didn't do any of that – I _couldn't_ – because somewhere inside, I understood what she was doing and why – that she needed to push herself and that she needed to face her demons head on. Unlike me, who always found some way to hide – in a bottle, in my house, in the angry façade that I'd worn like a second skin since the day I came from the hospital and Maria didn't. Abruptly, that ache in my chest stabbed at me again, albeit this time for an altogether different reason, and I felt something akin to purpose. _This_ was why _I_ was here – why I'd refused her offers when she'd wanted to come alone. I could at least do this for her. I could shove my own issues away for an hour or so. I could prop her up; I could be something for her.

"Yeah," I finally answered, moving my hand to the subtle dip at the small of her back. "Let's go."

**~.~.~**

When we entered the small room at the end of the hall, the first person I saw was my father. Not my mother, who stood to his right, her attention and slender, manicured hands fussing over the cords of the blinds. Not my brother or my sister-in-law, both of whom looked utterly exhausted yet somehow at peace. Not even the tiny infant girl in pale pink who slept in the acrylic bed between them.

Shoulders straight in his typical uniform of tweed and starched white and looking down at a set of charts over a pair of expensive wire-rimmed lenses, he looked every bit the renowned doctor he was. Sure, certain, and distinguished, I'd seen that posture and that expression more times than I could count. And like always, the air in my lungs seemed to dissipate and without even thinking, every muscle in my body tensed in practiced response, waiting for the expected – that same condescension and judgment.

Yet like that early morning when we had stood outside the nursery and waited for the arrival of my niece and his first grandchild, for reasons I couldn't begin to piece together, the expected didn't come. Instead, as soon as the door clicked shut, my father glanced up from the clipboard in his hand and offered a quiet greeting.

"Edward." His head ducked ever so slightly.

"Dad," was all I could think to say. Unable to meet his piercing gaze, I stared over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. Seeing him appraise me – thinking what, I had no clue – made my teeth clamp together.

He hesitated for just a second, uncertain, as if he had no more idea what to say to me than I to him, and in that second of indecision, I could see just how wide and how deep the canyon between us had grown. When he slowly extended his hand and silently shook mine, despite the sameness of our features, we looked like two strangers.

"Bella," he said quietly, turning to the woman at my side. His eyes flickered back to me. "It's so good to see you again."

When Bella smiled and replied the same, something shifted in the room. The tension that I couldn't put a name to seemed to relent. It was almost like a collective sigh of relief. Before I could think any more about it, however, my mother's frail arms suddenly circled my neck, squeezing as though she feared I'd bolt at any moment.

"You look so good, Edward," she breathed. "I'm so glad that you and Bella could come." Her nails dug into the tops of my shoulders, holding on a little tighter, and then she smiled up at me – that same soft smile she always wore for me, even when I didn't deserve it. When she reached up and ran her fingers through my hair, brushing it off my forehead like she used to do when I was small, my jaw locked, stinging from a sudden pang of something that I could only name as sadness.

"Lilly's so beautiful," she gushed, still mussing my hair. "She has your nose and chin. She looks so much like you."

"She does not!" Emmett broke in, loud and jarring and _thankfully_. He clapped me on the back and grinned broadly enough that I had to grin, too. "Don't say that, Mom. Lill's beautiful. Not a thing like him!"

"Well, I hope to hell she doesn't look like you, Em" I automatically fired back, purposefully skirting what we all knew was the truth – that Lilly looked just like the one person who wasn't here.

"Will you two be quiet!" Rosalie whispered, trying to glare, but failing miserably. "You'll wake her up."

"Ah, baby, it's fine. She's slept all day. Plus, I want to show her off, you know, introduce her to Uncle Eddie and Auntie Bellie." Emmett laughed and winked at Bella. The way he paired us together so casually made my eyes drop to the floor, trying to hide the warmth that climbed my cheeks.

"You're terrible," my mother sighed. "Bella, ignore him. He's tired and my son acts like a twelve-year-old when he's tired."

"That's for damned sure," Rosalie and I both intoned.

"Dad? Aren't you going to help me?"

My father looked from my mother and Rosalie to Emmett in mock seriousness. A second passed before he quickly latched his arm around my mother's waist, his eyes glittering behind his lenses, and muttered, "No way. You're on your own." I couldn't remember the last time I saw my father joke in any way.

"I don't mind," Bella interjected softly, as her fingers clamped around mine. She smiled and winked back at my brother. "Just not the Bellie part, okay?"

I wasn't sure how long we stood there – maybe thirty minutes, maybe more – but somehow we fell into easy conversation, talking about both everything and nothing all at once. As if they instinctively knew the kind of strain I felt, my mother and brother seemed to take over, most of the time allowing me to simply nod – to simply stand there and _be_. Arm wrapped around the woman who'd brought me here, I watched my father smile and laugh. I watched my mother's hands fly as she talked about all the pretty dresses she'd already found for my niece, more animated than I'd seen her in years. And hearing Emmett yammer on about how he was going to teach his little girl to throw a spiral by the time she was three, never mind the constant flutter in my stomach, things were almost… normal. For a few short moments, for the first time in more than four years, I _almost_ remembered what we'd been like _before_.

Reveling in _normal_, it took me a while to realize that at some point, Bella had slipped away from my side. As soon as I saw her out of the corner of my eye, however, reality came crashing down.

In that instant, it was almost as though time slowed, grinding to an abrupt halt. Everything else – the room, my family – unfocused, fading into a dull blur of colors and muffled voices. Almost as if in a vacuum, the only thing that I truly saw or heard was her, and the only thing I felt was a deep resonating ache that seemed to permeate my skin and settle into my bones.

Across from Rosalie, Bella stood, looking down into the small acrylic crib, her face a mask of endless sorrow. Her fingers curled around the edge of the plastic, white from the tension that radiated out from her and into me. In the quiet of her home, I'd seen that expression before, but here, it was something altogether different – stronger and more debilitating – and my knees wanted to buckle from it.

"May I?' Bella softly asked, never looking away from the sleeping baby.

"Of course," Rosalie said. My sister-in-law's voice was low and uncharacteristically kind, as if she somehow knew, as if she somehow sensed the fragility of the woman asking to hold her child. I wondered if or how much Bella had told her. "She doesn't have the IVs anymore. Just the breathing tube. In case, you know."

"She's perfect, Rose. Her hair is just like…"

Rosalie smiled. "I know."

Bella gently lifted Lilly from the crib and laid her against her chest, cradling her with such care and such certainty, like someone who'd done this countless times before. She said nothing at all. Instead, slowly rocking back and forth, glassy-eyed and oblivious to all else around her, Bella just stared down at the little girl in her arms and placed her smallest finger inside Lilly's tiny fist. When Lilly shook her hand back and forth, squeezing around her finger, Bella leaned down, almost kissing Lilly's forehead. When she breathed in, my breathing stopped, because in that second, I didn't see my niece; I saw another infant there, and Bella's voice rang in my head.

_"He was everything to me, Edward… _

_"I can still remember the way his little fingers curled around mine. When I close my eyes at night, I can still see him looking up at me from his crib, the smile when I picked him up. Sometimes, I can still smell him. I used to love that, the way he smelled. It was perfect, like sweet powder and sunshine. I'll never forget that as long as I live…"_

Barely noticing my mother's hand gripping my forearm, I swallowed back a thick lump of salt, incapable of turning away from a moment that was too intimate for me to truly comprehend. Seeing that kind of bittersweet anguish, the depth of lingering mourning, written as plain as day, made me _hurt_ everywhere. And if it were possible, in that moment, I would have given everything I owned – my very soul – if it meant she could have her son again.

"I'm so happy for you," Bella finally whispered to Rosalie, obviously struggling to let go of the little girl. "You have a wonderful family."

**~.~.~**

"Are you okay?"

Looking down at her, now curled up in the corner of the couch, her knees drawn against her chest, I knew the answer, regardless of whatever she said. Staring at the carpet, almost despondent, lost somewhere in her own thoughts and memory, Bella hummed something unintelligible and hugged her arms tighter around her knees.

_No._ No, she wasn't okay at all. And I immediately wanted to put my fist through the wall because I should have known. I should have stopped her and prevented the entire afternoon. I should have known that it was too much, too soon.

Gingerly, I sat down beside her, my heart wholly at the base of my throat. Seeing her like this – dazed and not altogether in the present – was something new, and I was so, so poorly equipped to deal with it. I didn't know what she needed, what she wanted, and frankly, I was still reeling myself.

"Bella?" I whispered, as I pushed her hair behind her shoulder so that I could run my fingertips down her cheek. She barely registered the contact, and that lack of response scared the fuck out of me.

After a moment of silence, her eyes finally lifted, and in them I saw the weight I knew so well: exhaustion, defeat, and an overwhelming hopelessness. Slowly, she breathed in and softly answered, "Yeah?"

"Do you…" I swallowed. "Need anything? Can I get you something?"

It took her a moment before she offered a small, pained smile and nodded. "Maybe an aspirin. My head hurts a little. And maybe you could check Garrett's water?"

I was up before she even finished, damned near elated to have some task, however small, something that I could _do_ rather than just helplessly sit there and watch her silently grieve. "Where do you keep that stuff?"

"Bathroom." Her chin dropped, again pulling her eyes from mine, and she mindlessly fingered the frayed hem of her jeans. "Medicine cabinet behind the mirror."

I took the steps two and a time.

Her bathroom looked nothing like the small space it had been before she had arrived. Of course I'd seen it before – several times – but for some reason, right now seeing her space struck me and made me slow my frantic pace. In muted beiges and filled with delicate feminine things – perfumes, lotions, matching towels – it was almost soothing. When I took a deep breath, for a second all I could smell was Bella – that same light scent of flowers and _clean_ – only here, it was much more concentrated. It calmed my rapid heart rate and eased the itch beneath my skin.

When the mirror door clicked and swung wide, a row of bottles glared back at me. It wasn't the small white aspirin bottle on the left that stole my focus, however; instead it was the two amber-colored ones in the very center. Numbly, I heard an echo of Bella's ragged voice that day. Momentarily forgetting my purpose, unable to stop myself from prying where I had no business, I drew one of the bottles from the shelf.

_Angela W. Cheney, M.D._

_Isabella M. Swan  
__Venlafaxine hydrochloride, 25mg, 30cnt  
__Expiration Date: 01/01/2013  
Refills remaining: 12_

_1 tablet, twice daily. Take with food._

I swallowed because I remembered that one.

Only instead of fifty milligrams, that fucking shrink had had me on two-fifty. And like the one before it, it'd done nothing. Nothing at all, except for make me feel like I was dying. Like I wanted to die. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday, not years ago.

_"Look, I don't want that shit, okay? It makes me feel like fucking hell."_

_"Mr. Cullen, you just need to trust me. It'll take a while to get in your system."_

_"Didn't you hear me? Shit makes me feel sick. I can't sleep more than two hours. I throw up all the time. My fucking hands shake."_

_"Mr. Cullen, I spoke to your father. I know this is a rough time. But don't you want to get better? You need to give it a chance to start working. It can take a while for your body–"_

_"Rough time? Really, Brody? You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you and my father. I don't need you or this bullshit."_

Shaking my head at the surge in my stomach – some remnant of years ago – I shoved that small orange bottle back where I found it and grabbed the aspirin.

No, I didn't want that bullshit again. I didn't want to feel sick all the time. I didn't want to shake and forget my own name. And fuck, I didn't need the kind of numbness those things caused; if I wanted _numb_, I'd choose scotch any day of the week. I certainly didn't need some half assed doctor who didn't know shit about me telling me how I should and shouldn't feel.

Aggravated, I shut the cabinet door. Before I turned to leave, my own reflection made me pause. Still gaunt and far thinner than I had been years before, I'd filled out a little. My face was a bit fuller and even in the low light, my complexion was just a shade brighter. The gray smudges in the hollows of my eyes weren't so dark, and my eyes didn't look so goddamned dead.

I wasn't stupid enough to not know why I looked better than I had in years, and I knew for damned sure that it had nothing to do with useless pills. No, my "why" was Bella. And a sharp pain in my chest reminded me that right now, my why was sitting downstairs on the verge of falling apart.

When my heel hit the bottom stair, I looked across the living room. Still huddled on the couch, shoulders hunched and drawn tight, Bella hadn't moved at all, and her expression hadn't changed. In the lamplight, however, instead of pale white skin, I saw blooms of pink and the glimmering stains of silent tears on her cheeks. They might as well have been physical blows.

Pills and doctors and all else forgotten, I quietly crossed the room, automatically dropping to my knees on the floor in front of her. When she still refused to look up, instead looking down and so fucking lost, something inside me cracked wide open. Wanting more than anything to drive her pain away, my arms stole around her slumped shoulders, gathering her as close as possible.

It was then – when there was no space between us and when I could feel each harsh thump of her heart – that she let finally go. Her tensed body crumpled, collapsing into me as she openly and loudly sobbed into the crook of my neck. As though I'd run away, her fists balled and pulled on my shirt.

Without speaking or asking, blinking back a wave of shared grief, I gently dragged her down off the couch and into my lap.

"That was… hard," Bella finally breathed, her voice raw and stuttering and broken.

"I know," I whispered, pressing my lips to her forehead. Feeling her tremble in my arms, it was as though I were at the base of a tall mountain, staring at a long and twisty road ahead. It seemed so far and so steep, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was a top or a place to rest at all, or if it just climbed higher and higher.

"It hurts, Edward," she cried, her tears leaking through the cotton of my shirt. "I miss him… every single day."

"Shh," I soothed, over and over, knowing that there was nothing I could say or do to make things right. All I could do was let her cry and hold her and not let go.

Today was her turn to break.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:** Lonnnng but some responsible writing stuff that I'd kind of appreciate you skimming…

Regarding Edward's reticence to seek professional help. This is something that several of you have mentioned. Thank you! I'm very glad you did. You're 100% right to be concerned and frustrated with him, maybe even more so after this chapter. This is, again, me attempting to infuse some measure of realism.

Unfortunately, as some of you know from personal experience, oftentimes those who need help the most have the most trouble realizing it. They don't see the world as others do. They think that they can do things all by themselves, are embarrassed, have had a bad experience before, or just don't understand that a 3rd party can help them, despite loved ones telling them otherwise. Sometimes it takes something truly significant to make them see that it's a lot tougher than it seems to force sobriety and mental health through willpower alone and that if underlying issues aren't addressed, it's all just a band aid.

Edward's flashback to his conversation with Dr. Brody… This isn't new information, btw. It came up back in Chapter 30. You can infer that at some point after Maria's death, for at least a brief period of time, Edward did attempt some professional help. He views it a failure.

Venlafaxine, brand name: Effexor, is a relatively common and fairly effective antidepressant that's been around since the early 90's. Like all antidepressants, depending on the person taking, it can have anywhere from mild to severe side effects.

Not all medications work for all people (as you read above in Edward's response to seeing B's meds). Some can actually increase levels of depression for some people and even increase chances of suicide. That doesn't mean don't use them. God no. And don't give up if one doesn't work for you. The main thing is to work with your doctor to find the right medication for you, the right dosage, and equally, if not more, importantly, the right kind of therapy to go along with it.

* * *

**Chapter ****title: **Lyrics from _Thirty-Three_, by The Smashing Pumpkins


	39. I Could Be Happy Here

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale. You both are just wonderful.

* * *

_**I Could Be Happy Here (As Long As You're Near to Me)**_

* * *

I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes.

Contemplating, preparing, or simply procrastinating, I wasn't sure, but as I stared through the windshield at the all-glass storefront and heard the jingling bells when the door swung wide, it was everything I could do not to throw the damned car in reverse and go home. It was almost as though once I'd crossed the city line into Port Angeles, all of my well-meaning purpose had simply vanished, as if it had just bled away and left me with nothing but my usual uncertainty and crawling skin.

Now, with my fingers fumbling and arguing with the key in the ignition, all I could do was wonder what the hell I'd been thinking.

Of course, the scribbled slip of paper on the seat beside me knew exactly why I was here. It was dumbfounding that for all my network of suppliers and brokers and merchandisers, the one and only place that had what I wanted just happened to be here on the Olympic Peninsula. And because God or fate or whoever despised me, that place also happened to belong to an elderly woman whose grandson I'd once called my best friend.

"Shit," I muttered, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I watched the door open and close yet again. I could feel each and every beat of my heart, loud and slamming in my ears.

Somewhere deep down, I knew that it was stupid and childish, and it was more than aggravating to feel so much trepidation – so much anxiety – over the mere _possibility_ of running into Jasper. But it was there. As irrational as it was, it was impossible to deny and pretend away that sinking sensation in my gut, the sweat that beaded along the back of my neck, and the ache in my jaw from gritting my teeth. I'd clung to the safety of my anger and self-imposed exile for so long that now, without it, I felt naked and exposed. And without Bella around to buffer and run interference, I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know how to act or how to think. I didn't know how to be anything but angry.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I stole another glance at the handwriting on the page. It was mine, messy and scrawled in haste. But it was something new for me. It was evidence of a rare, brief moment of triumph after days of searching – a split second when I'd felt none of these unsteady nerves or anxiety, but instead, a rare, overwhelming sense of _accomplishment_.

Because _she_ would love it. And she would smile and laugh and throw her slender arms around my neck. And when I closed my eyes and imagined what that would feel like, I realized that I wanted that moment more than I hated this discomfort. Because I wanted to do something for her that she wouldn't expect. Maybe just to show her that I could.

"Fuck it." Cursing my stomach and nerves and everything else, I flung open the car door, scrambled out, and slammed the door before my mind caught up with my feet.

As I crossed the gravel lot, hands shoved deep in my pockets and curled around my precious slip of paper, I tried to focus solely on my purpose here and _not_ to worry about Jasper and what I'd say or what I'd do. And most importantly, I tried my damnedest to force away those lingering thoughts of the brown brick liquor store on the edge of town – the one I'd driven by on my way in that had everything I both wanted and hated.

By rote, I chanted a mindless mantra of, _Six weeks_, over and over, reminding myself, driving the words into my skull as if repetition alone could turn wishes into truth.

_Six weeks_. It was twice as long as the last time. It was twice as many fucked up, rollercoaster ride days of wanting but denying, of forcing myself to stay in the present instead of retreating into numbness. Twice as hard.

And twice as bad if I were to fuck up again.

When the door snapped shut behind me, its bells clanged against the glass and startled my circling mind, stopping my never-ending chant. Radiant warmth from the nearby stove washed over my face as I stepped inside, and my eyes unwittingly traveled a room untouched by time.

Like most small town antique shops, the front room changed little from season to season. A few new pieces here and there, but still swathed in shades of burgundy, gold, and cream, the same curved chesterfields sat on top of the same tasseled Orientals. On the faded walls were lithographs I'd seen before, and on each tabletop, shimmering in the dim light from the nearby crystal lamps, I found familiar delicate, iridescent stands of Carnival glass.

It was an image _almost_ unchanged from so many months ago. Except now, signs of Christmas were all around. Above my head and shaping each door hung long swags of white, twinkling lights. In the window beside me, century-old nutcrackers and painted toy soldiers stood in a row. And when I looked deep into the room, far in the back, a head-high fir was wedged in a corner, weighed down by dozens of porcelain ornaments.

Without thinking, forgetting why I was here and all my earlier anxiety, I smiled, because once again – even more so than back in July – this place reminded me so much of my grandmother's house. It reminded me of when I was a kid and when Christmas meant something. It reminded me of a time before my family imploded. Before everything fell apart. When I dared to breathe in, warmth and cinnamon and spiced apples filled my lungs, and for a second, I felt… contentment.

"Hello there, young man."

Wrenched from memory, I shook my head to clear it. When I glanced down, however, my contented smile remained because I found a white bouffant, a pair of crinkly gray eyes, and a set of thin, pink lips curved upward at the corners. Like the store she owned, she was a throwback, unchanged by time in her lavender polyester.

"Mrs. Whitlock."

As if she were trying to place me, the elderly woman's face pinched and she made a whistling sound between her teeth. No more than a second later, however, her silvery eyes lit up, and with surprising firmness, a gnarled hand clasped my forearm. "Oh! I remember you! You came in this summer with Bella to pick up that wardrobe. Cullen, that's it! You know my Jasper."

More than impressed by her recall, I simply agreed. "Yes, ma'am."

"You've picked up some weight, haven't you?" Leaning back, Jasper's grandmother looked at me as though she were measuring me for a suit. "You look a little different… Healthier, I think. Your britches fit better." She nodded once, answering her own question. "That's why I didn't recognize you right off the bat."

I was probably gaping because I had no idea what to say to that. But thankfully, I didn't have to, because before I could open my mouth to attempt an answer, she smiled again, this time almost wistfully, and went on. "Such a lovely piece, that wardrobe. Top quality and so hard to come by, that one. Your Bella has wonderful taste."

My chest thumped a little. "She does."

"Well, come along then." When I frowned in confusion, Mrs. Whitlock tsked and tugged on my arm. "You're here about those matching tables and headboard, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am." Surprised by her shrewdness, I ducked my head and laughed, letting her lead me through the maze of mahogany end tables to a back room beyond a velvet curtain.

"Darn that Jasper, putting all my pretties on the computer like that." The old woman huffed, but the undercurrent of pride in her voice canceled out any and all irritation. "I just don't seem to keep things like I did before. People like you… always coming in and snatching them up before I have a chance to enjoy them. I'm going to have to tell that boy to stop that nonsense."

As we rounded the corner, I heard the bark of a familiar laugh, followed by a pained, "Come on, Gran, you know you can't keep all this stuff. It's a store. You are supposed to sell what you buy."

In the middle of the room, in a pair of old faded jeans and a stained flannel, the one person who I'd hoped not to see was bent at the waist, wiping down an old walnut desk with an oily cloth. And all my contentment was immediately lost, my stomach rolling with a wave of the same anxiety that plagued me in the parking lot. Like wildfire, it sped through my veins and turned my limbs to lead.

It took everything I had to stay put and not flinch when Mrs. Whitlock patted my arm.

"Surly boy." She reached over and ruffled Jasper's hair. "See what you say when I sell your things."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, before finally lifting his head.

Winking at me, oblivious to the tumult turning my insides to mush, Mrs. Whitlock asked, "Jasper, you'll help this nice young man while I go manage the front?" She was gone before he even had a chance to reply.

Like every other time we'd met over the last several months, for a moment, Jasper and I just stared, both of us unsure and out of practice, both of us remembering too many things at once – good, bad, and everything in between. It was just like it was that afternoon in July, just like that evening in September.

Only this time, with a shallow intake of breath and a balled fist around the paper in my pocket, I was the one who finally spoke first.

"Hey, Jas."

Offering a tentative smile, Jasper wiped his hand with a clean cloth and extended it in casual greeting. "How's it going?"

"I'm… good." When I shook his hand, my jittery nerves settled, and at least some of the anxious crawling under my skin seemed to subside. Everything about this was awkward and painful, but in a moment of clarity, I realized that it was no more so than the afternoon spent with my family in the hospital. I glanced up from my shoes, and a laugh, albeit a nervous one, tumbled out of my mouth. "Shit. I'm fine. How about you?"

His tentative smile widened and he threw down the rag. "Just cleaning up this old thing. Gran wants it out on the floor. It's not worth salvaging if you ask me."

After my years of brokering various items for various people, it took me all of five seconds to see that it was, but I wasn't going to tell him that his grandmother knew a lot more about antiques than he did.

"What are you here for?" he asked, leaning against the edge of the desk.

Not even needing the piece of paper in my pocket, I motioned behind him. "Those."

Craning his neck around, he nodded. "Oh, yeah. Nice. Just came in two days ago from an estate sale. Bella was actually on my list to call. You're lucky you caught them."

Shrugging, comfortable in a world I knew, I walked over to the curved headboard and ran my hand down one of the intricately carved posts. It was in remarkably good shape, as were the tables, the wood unblemished despite the years of wear, tear, and abuse.

Already seeing Bella's quiet smile, I shook my head and muttered an answer, only half way paying attention to what I was saying. "Had a query searching for anything close to matching. Got the email as soon as they went up." I paused and turned. "Do me a favor and don't call her, okay?"

"You got it." With a knowing smirk I remembered all too well, he pushed off the desk to walk over and asked, "Christmas?"

Not looking away from the curled design in the wood, that rare and fleeting bloom of _accomplishment_ returned, stretching my ribcage and banishing all else, and I couldn't stop my responding grin. "Yeah, I guess so."

**~.~.~**

"You're serious about her, aren't you?"

Hiding behind my cup, I slugged back a mouthful of too-hot coffee. It was bitter and black, and it burned my tongue and throat as I swallowed. Yet rather than answer, I took another drink. And then another, until I'd drained my Styrofoam cup as well as my only distraction.

Knowing that I should have left as soon as I'd paid and arranged for delivery, I cursed myself for saying yes and then again for staying so long. Because unlike the Seahawks' shitty season, _this_ wasn't a topic I wanted to discuss. I didn't want to talk about Bella with Jasper. With anyone, for that matter.

In so many ways, she, as well as what exactly we were, was off limits. It was mine, something I didn't want to share or jinx by talking about too much. Maybe I couldn't go there because I didn't exactly know myself. Or maybe it was because I really did. More likely, however, it was because deep down, never mind all the assurances to the contrary, I still couldn't accept what Bella offered and what that meant, scared shitless that I'd inevitably drive her away. Or worse, bring her down. God only knew I could do that.

When I glanced up across the table, Jasper eyed me – studying me – seeing what, I didn't know. "Forget I asked. Sorry." He spun his empty cup and stared out of the window. "It's not any of my business."

In nervous habit, I began tearing off little strips of Styrofoam from my own cup, thinking that there was a time years ago when I'd have been surprised had Jasper _not_ asked me about the woman I was seeing. But now… now, it felt like I was being asked to bare my soul to a stranger. It felt both wrong and right, and I didn't know why.

"No, it's fine. I guess…" I mumbled, pausing as I looked down at the pile of white I'd made. Buying a little more time, I cleared my throat. "I guess I am."

Still looking through the window, as if he understood that eye contact would make things worse, Jasper nodded. I wasn't sure what I expected him to say, but all he replied was a quiet, "I'm glad. Bella seems like a really good person."

For a long minute, neither of us spoke again. Jasper's cup made a dozen or more rotations and mine was reduced to nothing.

"You know I'm talking to her sister, right?"

My eyes shot up from the table, meeting his. They were tight, and there were lines crossing his forehead. And in that moment, without asking, I knew exactly what he was thinking. He was waiting – waiting for me to blow up just like I'd done so many years ago. He was waiting for me to yell or throw a fist. Because like so many years ago, this really wasn't so different.

Beneath the table, my knee jumped in a quick rhythm. Not looking away, I slowly replied, "Yeah. I know."

"Are you–"

I tried to swallow back my words, but failed and interrupted whatever it was he was going to say. "Is it… hard?"

Jasper's brows climbed and his spinning cup faltered. Almost in a whisper, he finally spoke. "Sometimes it is. Alice is… I haven't really dated anyone since…" Something unidentifiable flashed across Jasper's face, and his throat bobbed before he echoed the same words he said back in September. "But I never forget her. I think about her every day." His shoulders slumped. "I'm just trying to find happiness again. And even though I really don't know her that well, Alice… she makes me happy."

Even though I was sitting down, my limbs felt heavy. I was tired, as if I'd just run a marathon, and that weighty exhaustion seeped through my bones and replaced the last lingering remnants of my anxiety. Part of me just wanted to lie down on the floor and close my eyes.

After another long moment of silence, Jasper spoke again, answering the question I couldn't voice. "It gets better, Edward. I swear it does."

**~.~.~**

It was dark and after seven by the time I finally pulled into Bella's driveway. After the purposefully long, circuitous route back from Port Angeles, it even didn't occur to me to go home to change my clothes or check my messages. In reality, I didn't want to go there at all. I didn't want to walk those halls or pass by the room that I never opened. I didn't want to see the now empty cabinet in my kitchen and have to battle back the jitters that always came.

No, I didn't want any of what was there.

Instead, all I wanted was… _her_.

For a moment, I just stood there on Bella's porch and stared at the bright red door in front of me, my eyes following the faint diagonal lines where brushstrokes cut into paint. Over and over, I breathed in through my nose, filling my lungs with cold night air and holding on to it until my chest stretched and burned.

But no matter how long I stared or how deeply I breathed in, my mind couldn't seem to still. The drive and extra hours had done nothing at all, and my thoughts were still on a constant circuit. Countless times, I replayed the conversation I'd had with Jasper, trying to reconcile it with all of the other warring voices in my head. They were the ones that were always there, tugging back and forth between needing her and loving her and knowing that what I offered wasn't enough, that I was selfish and too damaged, and that she deserved so much more. It was an inescapable mindfuck with no hint of resolution.

Regardless of my battling conscience and will, after only a minute more, I still turned the knob and stepped into warmth. And I still smiled like a fool when Bella looked up at me from the living room floor.

She grinned when she asked, "Did you get lost?"

For a split second, some melodramatic part of me wanted to say yes, because lost was something I knew oh-so-well. "Nah. Just took the long way," I said instead, and peeled off my coat.

Knee-high stacks of brown and white boxes littered the entire floor, surrounding her like a small fort, so it took me a moment to pick my way through the maze. She laughed when my toe caught the corner of one, and she laughed even harder when I cursed and pushed it aside.

But when I knelt down to kiss her hello, the laughter cut away, and Bella reached up, wrapped her hand around the back of my neck, threading her fingers through my hair, and pulled me down closer. The angle was awkward, and my knees popped in protest, but I didn't mind at all. Because having her mouth on mine was something I'd never deny. Never mind that I'd kissed her a thousand times, like the addict I was, I only wanted more.

Like always, her lips were warm and so soft, and everything about being with her was right. I could drown in her like this – in softness, in heat, in the whispering sighs she made as I brushed my thumb along her cheek. When her tongue stroked against mine and when her fingers tightened in my hair, something wound up inside of me seemed to release, relaxing and driving away everything my will could not.

If I had my way, I'd have stayed like that forever.

But a minute later, or maybe five, reality resurfaced and she finally pulled away, giggling softly and ignoring all of my protests to the contrary.

I winced as my knees cracked again. "What are you doing?" I asked, sliding down to the floor beside her so that I could stretch out and slouch against her recliner. Despite the carpet, it was hard, and there wasn't a lot of room to move around for all the boxes. "And why are we on the floor? And what's," I waved haphazardly, "All this?"

Smacking my shoulder, Bella flashed a mischievous smile. "You've been distracting me this week, so I'm behind. So, I have a job for you tonight." From somewhere behind her, she pulled out two long gold and red rolls of paper, and then spun a pair of scissors around her finger like a pistol.

"Oh, fuck, no," I laughed, leaning my head back and staring at the ceiling. "I've already painted every wall in your house and I feed your dog in the afternoons. I'm not wrapping shit, too."

"I have cake," she deadpanned. When I looked down, one brow was arched because she knew she had me. Since the last time anything hit my stomach was this afternoon's coffee, my decision was made anyway. "It's fresh. And chocolate."

"Fine," I grumbled, taking one of the rolls and grabbing the nearest box. "You should know that I don't know how to do this, so it'll probably look like a five year old did it."

"It's a present, Edward." Rolling her eyes, she tossed me a roll of tape. "No one cares as long as it has some kind of paper on it."

It was strange how, like painting, cutting little strips of paper and taping them around boxes was almost relaxing. It was so much so that nearly thirty minutes passed before either one of us spoke again. Maybe it was simply the repetitive motion and the soft swipe of scissors slicing through paper. Or maybe it was the focus that it took to make the lines and wriggles match up just right. But either way, for as long as we worked, my mind remained in the here and now, and all of those loud, circling thoughts remained silent.

"So you didn't tell me who all of these are for." I reached across her to start a new stack of boxes. I noticed that she was much faster than I was at this. And when I looked at the now-wrapped gifts, there was a distinct difference in style. Namely, just as I'd warned, mine looked like the product of a toddler with mismatched patterns at the seams and crinkles at the corners.

Not looking up from the line she was cutting, she shook her head. "They're not all yours, if that's what you're asking."

"They should be for all the shit you make me do around here," I grumbled, feigning indignation. When she glanced up, her lips twitching in amusement, I couldn't stop my own responding grin.

A minute later, more seriously and far more quietly, I added, "You shouldn't get me anything."

Bella stared at me like I was an idiot. "Don't be ridiculous. Yours are already wrapped anyway." She winked and without warning, popped me on the head with an empty cardboard roll. "But to answer your question, _these_ are for everyone else. Most are little things for some of the people I work with at the college. _Several_ for Alice. A few for my mom that I need to hurry up and ship." She paused and then a heartbeat later, offered a hesitant smile. "And… I picked up a couple of things for your niece, too… for when we go over there on Christmas Eve."

Her eyes abruptly dropped from me to the box on the floor between her legs and softly, almost in a whisper, asked, "Is that okay?"

It took me a moment to respond because inside, the moment she mentioned my niece and Christmas Eve, my lungs had seized, squeezing until I had no hope of air.

While I'd done my share of Christmas shopping and planning, I'd been avoiding all thoughts of Christmas Eve itself. Because that was the day I dreaded most of all, the day that I _always _spent at the bottom of a bottle, only this year could not.

But when I blinked, instead of seeing my sister's face, in that quick flash of blackness, I saw _other_ images that would forever be branded into my skull: Bella holding my baby niece to her chest, looking down at her and seeing the child she lost, and then those godforsaken streaking tears and violent sobs that came in the hours afterward, right here in this very room.

What I wanted to say was not what Bella wanted to hear. I wanted to tell her that Christmas scared me shitless. I wanted to tell her how much I needed to protect us both – from everything – and I wanted to beg her to let me do it, even if that meant disappointing my family by not showing yet again. And as hypocritical as it made me, I wanted to tell her that I wasn't sure she could handle another day like the one weeks ago. God only knew that I wasn't sure _I_ could handle it.

All of those things stayed on the tip of my tongue, however, burning it and burning me, because somehow, instinctively, I also knew that saying them would hurt her more than I could comprehend. And when she finally looked up again and our eyes met once more, in them, I saw something beyond lingering sadness and mourning. I saw the glint of steel, of determination and strength I couldn't hope to possess. So I kept all of my wants and wishes to myself. Never mind all of my fears – my absolute dread that one or both of us would fall apart – I simply nodded and mumbled a quiet, "Of course, it's okay."

"Really?" Her eyes were wide, pleading for me to say yes.

My fingers locked around the closest box to hide their trembles, and I had to force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat. "Yeah. Really. It's fine."

When she smiled, every part of me prayed that my lie was worth it.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Goodbye, Apathy_, by One Republic


	40. My Bitter Hands Cradle Broken Glass

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, BilliCullen and Scooterstale, for always being so wonderful. And thank you so much, Legna989, for being an extra set of eyes (and hand to hold) on this one.

* * *

_**My Bitter Hands Cradle Broken Glass**_

* * *

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," I huffed as I leaned toward the wall, trying my best to not bash my elbow against the banister. Close to dropping the storage containers stacked across my arms, I stepped off the bottom stair and paused to bounce the load higher with my knee. "Just tell me where you want this stuff. And hurry."

From the middle of the room somewhere, there was a flurry of movement, the sounds of items being cleared away and tossed onto the couch. "Here on the coffee table." She was a little breathless, but even without seeing her, I knew that Bella was smiling. "Thanks for getting them down."

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, blindly walking toward her voice. "Is there anything in front of me? It's not like I can really see."

"No, you're good. Just walk straight."

Even with her direction, it took me a moment to find the table, but when I did, my arms gave a sigh of relief. "What the hell do you have in here anyway? These things weigh a ton."

When I straightened, Bella's eyes were laughing, crinkled at the corners and bright and shining like I hadn't seen in weeks. "Lights, ornaments, my Christmas Village," she chuckled, stepping close enough that I could smell a hint of perfume. When I frowned and looked away, she tucked her fingers through my belt loops, leaned up on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to mine. "It's vintage, too. All porcelain, so… it's a little heavy."

"Figures," I muttered, resting my hands on the tops of her hips, pulling her tighter against me. "How about not storing that stuff in the attic next year? You'll kill my back getting them up there again."

Unlike our usual nights when she wore one of her faded blue shirts, or more recently, one of my old Dartmouth tees, tonight Bella had dressed up a little. Nothing too much, but it was enough that it was impossible for me not to notice. There was a hint of make-up on her face – a glossy shine on her lips and darker smudges on her eyelids. Beneath my palms, her jeans were fitted across her hips, and what looked like a new dark red shirt stretched a little tighter around her ribs and waist. It dipped lower, just enough to show a shadow of cleavage. Regardless of the fact that I'd seen this woman in virtually all stages of undress – many times – I couldn't stop myself from staring. And because I intimately knew all of the curves that hid beneath, I couldn't stop myself from wanting to strip her down, either.

Catching me looking, Bella flashed me one of _my_ grins, because _of course_ she always seemed to know exactly where my mind traveled. But really, that little grin just made me want her more. It made me want to kiss it off of her, and I had every intention of doing so until a flattened palm against my sternum said no.

"Focus. I have a whole winter wonderland to build." With a wink, Bella pecked me on the cheek and dodged my mouth. When I shook my head in aggravation, she just laughed, ignoring my protests to pull away and start unpacking the containers.

"Fine." Rolling my eyes, I flopped down on the couch and watched her carefully unwrap the first of many tiny porcelain houses. "How'd _you_ get those boxes up there anyway?"

She turned, one brow lifted in challenge. "What, you don't think I could do it?"

This time it was my turn to laugh. "No, not really."

I barely ducked in time to miss the ball of wadded newspaper whizzing past my head. "It'll just have to remain a mystery then."

Ten minutes and a dozen dodged paper balls later, she was elbow-deep in the second container and now pulling out delicate glass ornaments one by one. They reminded me of the ones that hung from Jasper's grandmother's tree at the store. In varying shades of red, blue, purple, and green, they were _old_, and while some had faded over the years, each shimmering globe was unique, fine and elegant in a way that current assembly line decorations could never accomplish.

For my part, I just sat there, watching the way she seemed to revere the ritual. This was something important to her – something meaningful – and while I didn't fully grasp the whys of it, I immediately understood that much. So for as long as I could, I simply let her work, quiet and lost in some world inside her head.

As she carried a shiny blue and white ball over to the tree, without thinking, I leaned forward on the cushion and softly said, "Sorry about the tree."

"What?" Bella answered, not looking away, still staring at the ornament she'd just placed.

"I know you wanted…" I waved at the fake Douglas fir in front of the window. "That whole cutting down your own tree experience or whatever."

Bella turned, a soft smile lingering on her lips. Before she could open her mouth, however, a dark, inky mop of hair popped around the doorframe and startled us both, making me jump in place and Bella gasp and clasp a palm to her chest.

"Next year! Maybe it won't be raining cats and dogs." Alice paused and scrunched her nose. "You have some really shitty weather up here, do you realize that?"

Bella's shoulders shook. "Jesus, you scared the crap out of me. When did you get back from the store? I didn't hear you come in."

Grinning, Bella's sister waltzed across the room, an armful of plastic bags in tow. "Just now. Glad I didn't interrupt anything." She eyed me askance and smirked. "Oh, hey there, Edward."

"You're such as an ass. Remind me again why I let you come visit?"

"Whatever." Shedding a couple of decades, Alice stuck out her tongue and laughed.

"Real mature, Al." Rolling her eyes, Bella tugged at one of the bags. "What did you buy anyway?"

"Tinsel!"

"Hell no. I'm not vacuuming that mess up. You can never get rid of that stuff. Don't you remember that year…"

I wasn't sure how long they went on, trading quips and barbs, laughing, throwing silvery tinsel all over the room. Still sprawled out on the couch, I smiled and laughed along, too, but really, as much as I wished and willed it otherwise, I was only half way there in the room. Without permission, as if Alice's sudden interruption had sparked the wheels to turning once more, my attention drifted elsewhere, descending to somewhere far less cheerful and far more introspective, to places that I'd tried so hard to avoid.

_One day. _

That was all I had left, I abruptly realized.

When I thought about it, time had always been a funny thing for me, dragging some days, flying by others, its speed following no rhyme or reason. But now, something was _different_; something had shifted, even though I'd pretended otherwise. Now that I was coherent and weeks-sober, those dragging days were no more. Instead, they were nothing more than a fast-forward blur, careening toward the unknown at break-neck speed.

It was like one moment I was across a table drinking coffee with Jasper, still reveling in that brief second of triumph. But then I blinked and I found myself sitting on this very floor, wrapping up piles of boxes in red and gold, everything in between forgotten. I blinked again, and those boxes vanished, too, replaced by this morning's image of a familiar canary-yellow 911 pulling into the driveway right outside the door.

I barely remembered breakfast this morning. Or lunch. Or even the stilted conversation I'd had with Alice this very afternoon while Bella was in the shower.

One fucking day.

It was like a panicked curse that my mind seemed to chant over and over, each repetition adding to the lead weight that sank my stomach and made my nails dig into the tops of my thighs.

That was all that remained before the day that I dreaded most all year – even more than that godawful day in June. It was the one I'd lied about – to Bella and myself – the one I'd been doing my damnedest to forget about and wish away, hoping to somehow delay the inevitable. Because despite all of my promises and hope and trying, and despite the fact that every single bone in my body begged for tomorrow not to be a failure, somehow, I just _knew_.

My guts twisted and rolled because while the baby would be a distraction, I knew what I'd see in my mother's eyes when I looked and I knew what I'd hear in my father's voice. I knew it all. It wasn't like I hadn't tried this before. Only this year, even with Bella there, it would probably be worse. Without my scotch to dampen and without my usual armor of isolation and anger, I feared that there was no hope of keeping my memories and the emptiness at bay. Not tomorrow, not when my sister's absence would be a living thing.

And worse than all of that, I didn't know how to tell Bella, how to warn her – how to voice the sinking anxiety that just wouldn't shake, that just wouldn't let me be. Or maybe it wasn't that I didn't know how to tell her but that I _couldn't _because I also understood that she wanted family time and togetherness – _something_ to replace the hollow place inside of her – just as much as I needed to avoid it.

So with gritted teeth, I told myself that I loved her that much – enough to try at least. And instead of saying what I desperately wanted to say – that everything about tomorrow was a bad idea and that we should just stay here where it was safe and quiet, away from all that – I just sat here on my cushion, silent, still watching Bella and her sister pretend to fight and argue, all the while feeling something thick and heavy spread throughout my limbs and praying to God that I could hold it in.

**~.~.~**

"She looks good."

Still reeling from my earlier realizations, I stared through the window and fought my bobbing knee beneath the table.

"Yeah, she does," I managed. Even I could hear that my voice was low and tight from strain. Considering the compression threatening to collapse my chest and throat, frankly, I was surprised that I could talk at all.

Briefly, I glanced over to a picture that Bella had fastened to her refrigerator door. This photo was new, something I'd not noticed before, and it surprised me. It was of us both, and for the life of me, I couldn't remember when or where it had been taken. It was just a fuzzy shot from a cell phone and judging by the closeness of our faces, she was the one who held the phone. But even from across the room I could see that she was grinning from ear to ear and that her cheek was pressed tightly against mine. I barely even recognized myself because really, all I could see was her. Softer, without really meaning to speak, I added, "She always does."

In loud dissonance to the quiet of the room, Alice drummed her bright pink nails against the edge of the table. It was a nervous gesture that set my teeth on edge and made me want to grab her fingers to make them stop. Before I could reach across the table, with a quick peek past the doorway to the stairs, she spoke again, "She sounds good when I talk to her, too."

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say – what the hell she wanted to hear – so I merely nodded, a swift duck of my chin and nothing more.

"Do you think–" Alice started and then stopped.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence, as if Alice was waiting for me to finish her lines for her. The rapping of her nails sped, irregular and loud and again, I fought the urge to physically stop them. But when my eyes finally shifted to her, my irritation evaporated because I saw a mirror looking back at me. The smiles and laughter from the night before were gone, and in their place was a sister who was obviously so scared, maybe just as much as I was. Alice swallowed before continuing. "She said that when you went to the hospital that she actually held Rosalie's baby. And that afterward…." She trailed off, and there was the shine of moisture in her dark eyes.

"She was okay. She was fine," I said, rushing through the words, meaning them as much for her as for myself. Still at a loss for just how much to share, I quickly dropped my eyes and studied the swirling wood grain pattern in the tabletop. Beneath it, my knee bobbed anew.

"I know. Bella told me that you… kind of took care of her."

My jaw locked. "I–"

"Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for," I whispered, harshly waving her words away, not understanding the sharp wave of pain that rocked through me when she'd said them.

As if Alice knew that there was nothing more I'd say, she shifted gears, only to move on to something far more difficult. She hesitated before speaking, and when she started again, there was a slight quiver in her voice that told me just how hard this was for her to say. "You know more about her than I do now. You see her every day." Quieter, shakier, she whispered, "Will Bella be okay tonight? Seeing the baby again? She told me she would, but I just… I don't know."

I stilled and closed my eyes, because I'd asked myself that same question a hundred times over. But even knowing what I knew about Bella and even though I'd helplessly watched her fall apart that night weeks ago, each time I'd asked myself if she could handle facing her demons once more, I came up with a single answer: she was stronger than I was and she was healing and she _would be_ okay. If but through will alone.

"Please tell me she will."

Alice's hand suddenly crossed the table to gently brush the back of mine. I flinched from the unexpected contact, but recognizing the gesture for what it was, I made no move to pull away. Instead, all I could do was offer what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and silently nod.

~.~.~

The drive to Emmett's and Rosalie's took no more than fifteen minutes.

Even though the clock read just past six, with the clouds overhead, it was nearly pitch black outside, dark enough to make the streaking yellow lines on the pavement almost blinding. It was cold, too, hovering just below freezing, and the air was humid enough for me to know that at some point tonight Bella would likely get her wish for Christmas snow. I hoped so.

Inside the car, it was quiet – too quiet – and for once, I cursed the dull hum of the engine, wishing that'd I'd bought something louder – enough to drown out the tension that stifled the air and refused to wane. At least for me, instead, that tension only grew and grew, with every single passing mile, mimicking what I was trying so hard to hide and suppress.

Driving those few miles was almost an out of body experience – just a few automatic adjustments of the steering wheel, the press of some pedals, a few by rote glances in the rear view mirror. In fact, I barely processed making the final turn into the driveway. Even the squeeze of Bella's fingers around mine felt different than normal – detached almost.

Abruptly, the back door clicked, and in the reflection of the mirror, I watched Alice pull on her coat and quietly exit, leaving Bella and I alone. The silence was heavy, punctuated by creaks of leather when one of us shifted. I knew that she was looking at me and waiting; even without seeing, I could _feel_ the weight of her stare – that warmth that I always felt when her eyes were on me – yet for the life of me I couldn't make myself turn.

"Hey," Bella whispered, squeezing my hand again to get my attention. "Are you okay?"

I swallowed. "Fine."

Her thumbnail slid across my skin, sending a wave of tingles up my arm. "I don't believe you. We can go back home."

"No," I replied, far more harshly than I'd intended. My teeth clamped together with an audible clack, certain evidence of what lurked just beneath my pathetic façade. At this point, however, there wasn't much I could do about that. It was taking everything I had to stay seated.

"You know you're not alone, right?"

It was a soft echo of the words she had said to me outside the church before Emmett's and Rosalie's wedding, and it forced my head to turn. Even in the darkened car, I saw that Bella wore nothing but quiet sympathy in her expression. But this time, unlike months ago, for some reason, I hated it – that it was there to begin with, that she had to deal with my shit when she had herself to take care of, and more than anything, that I was a selfish prick who couldn't get a grip for the one person who meant more than anything else.

"And we can leave any time."

I tried my best to smile – to fake it – but failed miserably. So I pretended to stare through the moon roof above my head and muttered the same lie I'd been telling for days. "Yeah, I know. It'll be alright." Even though my whole body screamed otherwise.

Not waiting for her to respond, or worse, look at me with that godawful expression again, I quickly pulled our joined hands to my lips before releasing her to open the door. "Now, come on. Let's go inside. Your sister's waiting and probably freezing to death."

Before we stepped up to the porch, the front door swung open. Warm, yellow light streamed from within, outlining the tall figure of my brother. Dressed in red, Lilly was resting against his chest, small and curled up in a bright red ball. Even from fifteen feet away, I could see the broad grin that spread across my brother's face. He looked absolutely at ease – content and at peace. I was envious.

When I hesitated on the last step, I felt Bella's hand again, sliding gently into mine.

"Hey guys. Come on in."

"Em," I mumbled as I shook his hand, not quite meeting his gaze, grateful for the low light.

"Hey, Ed," he said, stopping me on my way in. When Bella looked to me, I motioned for her and Alice to go on inside.

"Yeah?"

A line appeared across his forehead and his lips mashed together, as if he were debating what to say to me. "Look," he began, looking from me back toward the living room just past the door. I could hear voices in the house – happy ones. "Thank you for coming. Really. Mom's… excited. So is Dad. I can tell."

I winced, not believing him, but still feeling the spike of pressure – to perform, to live up to what I couldn't. "Yeah, that's good. I'm glad we could come." I waved at Lilly, trying not to focus on her familiar curls. "First Christmas and all."

Emmett smiled at the mention of his daughter, but it wasn't the broad, jovial grin from before. It was more subdued, maybe a little bittersweet. I didn't want to know where his thoughts were.

"Anyway." His voice dropped. "Just wanted to let you know that we're glad, too… that you're here."

I bit my lip to hide the telltale tremble.

As we walked inside, again I was struck by the same feeling of odd detachment that I felt in the car. I saw the tree in the corner, lit up bright by a thousand white, tinkling lights. When I breathed in, I smelled familiar scents of roasting ham and the sweetness of fresh-baked bread. And there was music playing in the background, I processed – some instrumental version of _O Holy Night_. Yet everything was fuzzy, as though I were seeing it all from beneath a foot of water. I felt almost… _numb_, but not in any way that I'd have wanted. I shook my head to clear it, but _nothing_ changed.

With a plastered-on smile, I hugged my mother, ignoring the wetness in her eyes, and awkwardly shook my father's outstretched hand, answering their greetings with quiet ones of my own. But like everything else, it was all detached – _wrong_. Even as I was talking, I had no idea what I was saying, only that they were nodding and smiling like nothing at all was different or out of place.

Dinner was much the same, following almost immediately upon our arrival, and for me at least, it flew by at nearly incomprehensible speed. I vaguely noted that the spread of food included all of my old favorites – my mother's doing, I was certain – yet it tasted bland, almost as if my tongue no longer worked. I ate, of course, numbly chewing and swallowing – _participating_ – but for the most part I kept silent, instead watching those around me chatter on about everything and nothing, smiling and laughing, doing what _normal_ people did on Christmas Eve.

All the while, I floundered under my foot of water, not quite there and not quite not – floating and lost. Really, the only things that stuck out for me were the looks that Bella occasionally gave me – wide-eyed and concerned – and the way her hand held tightly to my knee. Through the denim of my jeans, I could feel the bite of her nails and the warmth of her palm, and without even thinking about it, I knew that the weight of it was the only thing that kept me tethered – albeit tenuously – to the here and now.

Inside, deep in my bubble, a panic I knew oh-so-well – the same one that always drove me to drown in a bottle – welled, rising to the surface, and I cursed myself because no matter how many times I told myself to snap out of it, I _couldn't_.

After forcing down a slice of tasteless pie, I sluggishly followed Bella into the living room, and then onto the sofa by the window.

"We need to go, Edward," she whispered. "It's okay. We've stayed long enough. Plus, it'll be good for Alice. She said she was going to say hello to Jasper later anyway."

I shook my head, even though every part of me agreed.

Because just like I'd known she would be, Bella was okay. I knew that much. And I wanted this for her, never mind what was going on with me.

"Bella, how was your first semester?" I heard my father ask. For the first time all night, I registered actual words from him. Like always, sitting cross-legged in my brother's leather recliner, he was the picture of sophistication – distinguished even in his version of casual. But when I focused on his face, I noticed that the gray at his temples was lighter and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes were more pronounced than I'd ever seen.

Glancing up at me, Bella smiled, and for just a moment, the seemingly constant surging in my stomach ebbed.

"It's good. I'm picking up another class next semester."

"What do you teach?"

Her smile widened. "Just literature. The class I'm adding is a sophomore level one. It's on the main campus, so I'll have to drive to Port Angeles twice a week, but it'll be nice teaching something a little… more advanced."

"I didn't know you were going to have to drive," I mumbled, distracted.

Bella leaned into my side as if to reassure me. "I just found out the other day. I was supposed to take another freshman class, but the guy doing the other one asked to swap times."

I nodded, but for some reason I couldn't explain, I didn't like any part of it, and the momentary reprieve I'd been granted was gone. My stomach flip-flopped and my toe tapped against the carpet in agitation.

As the others slowly drifted into the room, the conversation about Bella's classes stopped and was replaced by half a dozen other ones. With everyone spread out between a couple of couches and various chairs, it was loud and boisterous in the room – everything that Christmas should be. But again, although I was there physically, really I was back to floating, hearing what could have been a hundred voices all at once.

"Have you seen their new line?" Rosalie asked.

Across the room, Alice grinned and pulled out her phone. "Yes, it's wonderful. You really need to get a catalog. Take a look at this."

"Emmett, do you want me to put Lilly in her crib?"

"Nah, Mom. She's good. She'll be asleep in a minute."

As if on cue, my mother reached over to touch my niece's hair and quietly murmured, "She looks so much like Maria… Same hair, same nose…"

My eyes clamped shut, fighting the instantaneous barrage of images.

"The neighbors next door just had a baby, too… a boy."

"Oh, how wonderful! She'll have a friend."

"She will not!" Emmett huffed, shifting Lilly to his other shoulder. "No boys. Not until she's forty."

"Bah, she'll need a good playmate. Someone to…"

It was like a switch was thrown somewhere deep inside my head. Without warning, memories I'd been struggling to contain came roaring back to life, spinning my thoughts until I was so dizzy I could barely breathe. But instead of smelling gasoline, I smelled gardenias, and instead of angry shouting, I heard giggles and laughter.

And it was _so much_ worse.

"_Edward! Come on! Come with me!" Maria laughed, tugging on my sleeve. "Walk with me to the park. Momma said we could go while she's making turkey."_

"_Not now," I grumbled, not wanting to go out in the cold just to push her around on the swings - again. "Later, okay? It's too cold anyway. Go play Barbies or something."_

"_I don't want to. Please!"_

"_Ask Emmett."_

_She made an awful sound, and when I looked down, she wore a pitiful pout. "He doesn't ever play with me. He says I'm too little." Her eyes were shiny, just on the verge of tears. "Please?"_

Even at twelve, I couldn't say no to her.

"_Fine. Get your coat," I huffed. "Why do you always do this?"_

_Maria squealed in delight and threw her arms around my neck. "I love you."_

"_Yeah, whatever." I still squeezed her back. _

_As we opened the front door to leave, my father came out of the library, wearing a stern frown that I knew was all for show. "Just where do you two think you're going?"_

"_Edward's taking me to the swings! Momma said we could." _

_He chuckled and shook his head. "Maria, it's snowing outside."_

"_Just for a minute! Please! Edward's going, too!"_

_My father pretended to think for a moment, barely containing a smile when she hugged his leg. "I guess... Be back inside before dark. Or Santa won't know you're here."_

"_We will!" she laughed, pulling on my arm hard enough to pop my elbow. _

"_Edward?" _

"_Yeah, Dad?" I turned. _

"_Be back in an hour. Your mother wants us eating by five." More seriously, he added, "And you watch her. Don't let her get hurt. I'm holding you responsible."_

_I nodded. "Yes, sir."_

The same voice from another time immediately chimed.

"_Your sister didn't make it, son."_

My chest felt as though it were being torn in two, as though someone had taken a knife and was carving through my sternum, and my insides squeezed until my breath came out in a harsh pant. Acid rose up my esophagus, and my mouth was suddenly dry. On the verge of throwing up, I looked around the room, taking in all of the warmth, all of the cheer, all of the smiling faces.

I couldn't be here. I couldn't do this.

This was a mistake.

Because I didn't know what the fuck was going on with me. But in a moment of self-realization, at least I did understand that at some point, something had cut loose _all _of my anger. Or maybe it had just dissolved over time. Regardless, it wasn't there, not like before. My blood no longer boiled. And my fists no longer balled. All my defenses were shot, and instead, what I was left with was far, far worse. With anger and numbing alcohol now stripped away, what I'd been running from was all that remained.

Emptiness.

Hollowness.

And guilt so real and so tangible that I physically hurt.

"Edward?"

When I looked down at Bella and saw fear – for me – in her eyes, I wanted to cry.

"Fine," I gritted out, the word more a curse than an assurance.

"You don't look fine." Her responding words were fast – anxious. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. I just need to–" _Escape._

"Please?" she begged. "Talk to me."

I despised what I was doing to her. And I despised myself. So fucking much. For once, I needed to escape her as much as anything else. "I'm going to step outside for a few minutes." I swallowed back bile. "It's hot in here."

"I'll go with you."

"No. Just stay here." I glanced around the room, thankful that somehow, with all of the other conversations, at least no one else was paying attention. At least no one else was seeing me literally fall apart because of… nothing more than dinner with my family.

"What?"

"Just stay. I'm fine." Quieter, I continued, "I need some space, okay."

Whatever Bella saw in my face made her blanch, but at least it made her let me go. As I rose from the sofa, she grabbed my hand and pulled me back, pressing her lips to the side of my neck. Just loud enough for me to hear, she whispered in my ear, "Come back in soon. Or I'll come out there."

"Just a few minutes."

When I finally made it outside to the porch, the air was absolutely frigid, and when I sucked in my first real breath in two hours, my lungs burned. But I was beyond caring. With a hard thump, I immediately collapsed into the nearest chair, counting, breathing, doing everything I could possibly think of to still my racing thoughts. Waiting for my heart rate to slow, I wasn't sure how long I sat there – slumped, bent in half, with my head almost to my knees.

Through the front window, like the spectator that I was, I watched my family. I watched my mother take my niece in her arms, cooing and dancing around. There was a smile affixed to her face that I hadn't seen in so, _so_ long. And my father. He and my brother stood together by the fire, talking, acting so goddamned normal. And Bella and Alice and Rosalie… Everything looked… _right_.

Tears of frustration leaked down my cheeks, stinging and burning, cold against my skin.

For all that joy and healing and trying, all I could think about was the one person missing. And how the last words I heard from her mouth were how much she _hated_ me. And how ever since she died, ever since I'd _caused_ her death by my own stupidity and arrogance, nothing had been the same. How much I _missed _my baby sister.

And I realized that it wasn't going to change. No matter how much I loved Bella. No matter that I could have these moments of happiness with her, there would always be something… missing, something sad, something that I couldn't fix. No matter how much I wanted it, no matter how much tape and glue were used to put me back together, I was still broken inside. And I always would be. And I didn't deserve her. Any of it.

Whatever they had in that room, it wasn't for me.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title: **Lyrics from _Black_, by Pearl Jam.


	41. Even When You've Paid Enough

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, Scooterstale and BilliCullen.

* * *

_**Even When You've Paid Enough**_

* * *

I wasn't sure how long I stayed outside. Incapable of anything else, I just sat there on my brother's front porch, frozen in place and staring through the window, longing for something that I couldn't quite grasp.

I counted the quiet ticks of my watch. I silently sped through a dozen accounts I still had left to resolve. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cold night air, holding it in as long as my lungs would allow – until my chest stretched and burned. I did _everything_ I could possibly think of to settle my nerves and to calm the anxiety still coursing its way through my veins.

But _nothing_ worked.

Lost in wanting and in utter failure, my shoulders refused to still, and every time I swiped at my face, the back of my hand came away wet. Nothing I tried drove away the heavy, smothering weight crushing my chest and limbs, and nothing, not even seeing Bella happy and smiling, dampened the sickening churn of my guts.

Instead, with every useless gulp of frigid air and with every familiar laugh spilling from inside the house, it only got worse, surging all over again.

I remembered this. _This_ was what I'd run from years ago, what I'd refused to face, and what I'd hidden from by sinking myself in liquid oblivion. This was what pills and talking and all that bullshit never cured, but scotch did. And more so than ever before, even after weeks of sobriety and trying to be something I wasn't, my hands trembled. _I_ trembled.

I watched my father kiss the top of Lilly's head and take her from my mother wearing a grin I'd seen a thousand times as a kid.

Despite the temperature and the chatter of my teeth, sweat beaded along the back of my neck as my blood pressure climbed, soaring into a fast, thrumming _rush-rush_ of blood between my ears that threatened to drown out everything else. Shaking my head, I swallowed, but my mouth was suddenly too wet. And when I blinked, a wave of dizziness rocked through me, blurring and tilting the image of my family.

Without warning, my stomach rolled.

My hand automatically clapped over my mouth, and in a split second of clarity, I shot up from the chair. As soon as I was within arms reach of the porch's edge, my knees buckled and thudded against the wood.

Everything – my family, the icy air, the hum of engines on the highway – faded until there was nothing but the ruthless wringing of my stomach and the bitter taste of acid on my tongue. Every single bland bite I'd forced down at dinner roared up my esophagus, and with a violence I'd not experienced in weeks, I heaved and heaved, coughing and spitting up bile until there was absolutely nothing left – until I was empty in every single way.

When the spasms finally – thankfully – stopped, my body collapsed and I slumped against the wall in relief. My skin was tacky from drying sweat and my abdomen ached, but at least a little bit of that weight had lifted from my chest. At least I could breathe again.

A low, whispered, "Ah, fuck," came from my left.

My aching abdomen instantly clenched again, and heat flooded my neck and cheeks as I processed who else was here and where exactly I was. When I heard the slow scuffs of rubber against wood, my eyes squeezed shut, as if that action alone could somehow hide me from reality's approach.

_Not now_, I wanted to scream, as I silently cursed God and everyone else. Because I couldn't even have this – not even a brief moment to break down in private. Every bit of me wanted to melt into the boards beneath me, but I was too tired and strung out to move. I could only fold in mortified defeat.

"How long?" Hoarse from vomiting, my voice was little more than a raspy whisper.

Silence – dense and too heavy – answered me.

With a shaky intake of breath, I opened my eyes, squinting against the light from the window.

Without a word, Emmett eased into the rocking chair that I'd just occupied, casually throwing his ankle over his opposite knee. Staring out across the front yard to the tree line beyond, his expression was almost blank, as though nothing at all were wrong. As if he hadn't just watched his older brother hack up his guts over the side of the porch because he was too fucked up inside to deal with normal interaction. The only clue that he had seen anything at all was the whiteness of his knuckles as they curled around the armrests.

Exhausted, not bothering to question why he was here and Bella was not, I leaned my head back against the siding and drew my knees closer to my chest to fight the cold. Another long, painful minute of silence passed before I finally gave in and cleared my throat. It was raw and just swallowing hurt. "How long have you been out here?" I softly repeated, not wanting to know the answer at all.

Even in the low light, I could see Emmett's forehead crumple before he quickly looked away. "Long enough." He hesitated. "What can I do?"

I forced a lie of a smile. "It's nothing. Just a bug or some shit."

He turned and stared at me then, and in a moment of undisguised desperation, I could see a dozen different things that he wanted to say to me, none of which I thought I could take hearing.

But he didn't. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the span of trees in front of the house, and with a quick shake of his head, my brother said the one thing I didn't expect at all, granting me just a sliver of my dignity.

"Nah." He grimaced and popped the armrest with his palm. "Probably that fucking casserole. I told Rose it tasted weird. Don't tell her I said it, but she's a terrible cook."

I barked a harsh laugh, more in relief than anything else, and turned so that he wouldn't see me swipe away another streak of wetness.

"What? It's true."

Neither one of us pointed out that there had been no casserole on the table.

Out by the driveway, set off by some incorrect timer, a utility light flickered to life. In the soft glow beneath it, flecks of cottony white rained down, swirling and dancing in the light breeze. I could smell the snow when I breathed in – damp and cold, yet somehow clean.

"Em, what are you doing out here?" I mumbled, flicking my thumb in nervous habit.

For a too-long second, I thought that he wasn't going to answer and I braced myself for silence.

"Just getting some air," he slowly said, glancing over with a tight-lipped smile. "Just like you."

My eyes fell to my lap. "Bullshit."

"Whatever." Fabric rustled with the shrug of his shoulders, and then the floorboards began to creak as he slowly rocked back and forth. "It's hot in there."

"Em–"

With a forced cough and another pop of the armrest, he didn't give me a chance to argue. "You catch the game on Saturday?"

My head shot up. "What?"

As if I hadn't answered at all, he went on, "Best game we've had all season. You seriously didn't watch?"

Picking at my jeans, I recalled that godawful night in the hospital when I'd done this very same thing for him – when we'd watched reruns of games I'd seen before just so that he could _not_ think about his wife and daughter and the possibility that they might not make it.

A sharp pang of _something_ in my chest cut through the emptiness and ache, forcing me to swallow hard. Closing my eyes, scrambling for the lifeline he'd tossed my way, I tried to focus only on the question at hand and not the tumult that had sent me out here to begin with.

"What was the score?" I swallowed again. "I must have missed it."

"Twenty-one to seven."

"Yeah?"

Emmett nodded and waved his hand at the dark. "Still need a new quarterback. Had a _decent _game, but I swear to God that kid can't throw anything straight more than fifty yards. Offensive line looked good, though."

"Never mind it's the end of the season," I muttered.

"Damn if I don't know it," Emmett huffed, and I _almost_ laughed. "No fucking way we'll make it past the first round of the playoffs. As if we ever do."

After a few more minutes, we were quiet again. Dull chatter and laughter still came from inside the house, but now it was muted by the soft white noise of falling snow. Gazing out at the wall of falling white, more tired than I'd been in… _years_, I sighed and pushed my hair off my forehead.

"Edward?" Emmett's baritone held a note of weary sadness, an echo of what seemed to fill every part of me.

"Yeah?" I breathed, watching the swirl of steam as it came out of my mouth.

"It's cold out here."

"I know." My jaw locked and stung, and my fingers automatically began picking at my jeans again. "Just go on back inside. They'll miss you if you don't."

After a moment of hesitation, Emmett lifted himself out of the rocker and stepped toward me. He paused again, before slowly extending his hand to pull me up. "Come on. They'll miss you, too."

**~.~.~**

"Are you sure?"

"Go. Get out of here." Even though they were on the other side of the wall, I could _see_ the indulgent smile on Bella's face as clearly as if she were right here in front of me. "But be careful, okay? Some of the roads might be bad."

"Yeah, I will," Alice laughed. "Seriously, the roads were fine on the way back and it's stopped snowing anyway. I'll be fine."

Worn out to the point that I was swaying, I leaned against the back of the couch and waited for Alice to leave.

Half of me wanted her gone, begging for some space and time when I didn't have to be _on – _when I could finally stop pretending so much. After that last hour and a half at Emmett's, after forcing myself to go back inside to play happy and normal and suppressing the constant war going on inside, I just… didn't have anything left. I couldn't wear that smile anymore. I couldn't make small talk or entertain or be anything that I needed to be in front of Bella's sister.

Yet on the other hand, the other, more fucked up part of me dreaded the thought of being left alone with Bella. Because I knew that she knew _everything_, even without me saying a thing. I'd seen the tense line of her shoulders and I'd seen the glimmering worry in her eyes when I'd finally walked back in behind Emmett. And now, I just couldn't _stand_ the thought of all the questions and talking and all of the fucking _looks_ that would inevitably come.

I didn't want to go there. At all. I didn't want to try to explain what happened, or why, or any of it. I just wanted to… not speak for a while. And most of all, I just wanted to close my eyes and forget.

"Got it," Alice said. There was a jingle of keys and then the whine of the screen door opening. "Love you. It'll be late, so I'll see you in the morning."

Softer, Bella called out the door, "Love you, too, Al."

My still-aching stomach flipped when the door clicked shut, and then again with the quiet switch of the lock. It seemed like it took her forever to make her way from the kitchen back to the living room, and with each passing second and each soft pad of bare feet against tile, my fingertips dug deeper into the top of the cushion behind me.

"Hey."

Even though her voice was low, almost a whisper, it might as well have been a crack of thunder. With an involuntary flinch, I looked up from the floor.

Still as stone, Bella stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, watching me, evaluating me – judging me and no doubt finding me wanting. The expression she wore was the one I knew oh-so-well, and it made me want to crawl away. It was the same one I'd woken up to that morning weeks ago – pity, understanding, and angry frustration, somehow all rolled up together in a pair of mashed lips and in the sharp crease of her brow.

"Hey," I muttered, dropping my gaze back to the carpet. A quiet, "Sorry," came out before I could stop myself.

Still unmoving, Bella sighed a heavy breath, and being the masochist I was, I looked up again just in time to see the subtle shift in her features and the tired sag of her shoulders. After but a second's pause, rocking forward, she crossed the few feet between us in a handful of strides, only stopping when she was close enough that I could feel the heat from her body and smell the sweetness of chocolate on her breath.

Before I could open my mouth, her arms unwound from her chest and slipped beneath my coat, sliding around my waist until her fists locked at the small of my back. Squeezing me, her head fell to my chest, turning sideways, almost as though she were listening for my heartbeat.

My lungs emptied with a harsh shudder as my arms instantly wrapped her shoulders, gripping the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer and closer, until there was no space at all between us. I knew that I held her tightly – too tightly – but Bella didn't move or try to loosen my hold.

Rationally, my brain knew that it'd only been hours since we'd been close like this, but the rest of me didn't seem to know it at all. Instead, it was though I'd forgotten human touch altogether and I was starving for it, wanting as much as she would give me. Burying my face in her hair, I just wanted to be like this forever, because when she squeezed me again and fisted my shirt, it filled back in just a little bit of the emptiness.

"I'm sorry, Edward," she whispered against my chest. "I didn't realize that it would be–"

"Please, don't," I begged, not caring how desperate I sounded. "Not now."

"But–"

"_Please_."

I felt her slowly nod, and for a long time, we just stayed like that. Unmoving, not speaking – just _being_. The slow, steady motion of her chest rising and falling was almost like a lullaby, soothing the anxiety that had coiled my muscles and made me a mess inside. Gradually, the tension seeped away, replaced by sheer and utter exhaustion.

When the clock on her mantle chimed the hour, lifting her head, Bella reached up and lightly scratched the side of my neck. The sound that her nails made was loud, rasping against a day's worth of growth.

"You're still staying, right?"

I didn't really have a choice. Because I knew what would happen if I went home. And as much as I wanted it, I couldn't go there again, at least not when Bella was in my life. I'd made that promise.

"Yeah." Closing my eyes, I forced a smile and kissed the top of her head. "Tomorrow morning, you have a Christmas present to open."

"Edward– " The pitch of her voice was all wrong, and I knew where she was heading again.

"Later," I repeated, this time through gritted teeth.

Tilted against my sternum, her head shook back and forth. "All right. Later. But there will be a later, okay?" Releasing my waist, Bella's hand found mine. "Let's go to bed then?"

Nodding, I let her lead me upstairs. I let her pull my shirt off and my jeans, and then I let her guide me underneath the blankets.

_Sleep_ was what I wanted and what I needed so much – that dark oblivion where my mind could finally stop turning and where I could just rest for a while. Yet an hour later, at quarter past two, wide awake and incapable of sleep, I stared up at the black ceiling overhead, watching the darker shadows swell and shift.

Bella's breathing was soft and slowly regular, warm against my neck, and I envied her that. She was so much stronger than me, so much more deserving of happiness and joy. I wanted that for her. I wanted her to laugh. I wanted her to be truly happy. I wanted that _with_ her.

But as I replayed _everything_ over and over and over, I was just as lost, just as overwhelmed and frustrated as I was on Emmett's porch, and with no better hope of how to fix it. Of how to fix me. The only difference was that now the sharper misery from before had been replaced with something worse – weary resignation.

All I could do was pray that tomorrow there would be some light.

.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Be Yourself_, by Audioslave.


	42. This Circus Is Falling Down on Its Knees

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, Scooterstale and BilliCullen.

* * *

_**This Circus Is Falling Down on Its Knees**_

* * *

Sunlight poured through the open blinds, brightening the room and tinting everything a pale yellow.

For hours, on my back and staring at the ceiling, I watched time slowly slip by, measured only by shifting colors and the incessant tick of the clock on the wall. The morning alarm had long since gone off and it was now somewhere past eleven, yet I'd made no move at all to get up.

I just… didn't feel like it.

But then again, I realized, this seemed to be my new routine. Because I hadn't felt like it yesterday, either. Or the day before. Or the day before that.

After three weeks of the same, I was just… _tired_.

Tired of talking. Tired of lying. Tired of being awake and aware.

And because God despised me, no matter what I tried, no matter how exhausted I was, I couldn't sleep worth a shit. I physically ached all over, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw images I didn't want to see. I heard the same old screaming and yelling and breaking glass, and when I breathed too deeply and felt my skin stretch across my ribcage, pulling on my old incision scars, I smelled the familiar stench of dirt and gasoline and blood – hers, like always, and _mine_.

Worse than ever before, it was like I was constantly falling, like the ground had been pulled out from beneath my feet, and now the world was spinning so fast that I couldn't hope to stand.

I sighed and rolled on my side, cheating over to where Bella had slept last night. I could smell her on my sheets – soap and fragrance and just… _Bella_ – so I hugged her pillow to my chest and buried my nose in the fabric, inhaling her over and over, trying to drive away the melancholy that just wouldn't go away.

I wanted to be angry. In a way, I was – at myself certainly – and at least a dozen times per day, I told myself to stop being such a stupid, melodramatic idiot. I told myself to stop thinking, to stop staring at the door into Maria's old room, to stop replaying that look on my father's face when he'd told me it was all my fault – to stop being me. But they were just words – useless entities spoken by a fool with no real conviction.

Christmas had been a mistake. A colossal one with long-reaching repercussions. I knew that now.

Ever since that night – those endless hours when I'd lain in Bella's bed, holding her as she slept, thinking and wallowing and failing to suppress _this_ – things had been… _different_.

Now, every time Bella asked if I was okay or what was wrong or where my mind was, I had no real answers. Every time she wrapped her body around mine, I replied in kind, only I wasn't entirely there and my body no longer registered sensation in the same way. Every word and every touch was muffled, as though I were underwater.

I smiled every now and then because I rationalized that it was what I was supposed to do. But being the piss-poor actor that I was, she could see right through me. I knew it. I knew that Bella knew. But I did it anyway; I pretended.

I _hated_ the look on her face when I walked through her front door at night – that godawful warring mix of never-ending patience and bitter frustration – knowing it was there because of me. I hated that I made her worry. I hated that I hadn't heard her laugh since Alice had gone back to California.

Something had happened on that porch. Something had severed inside me, beyond the damage that I knew was already there. And now, I didn't know how to knit myself back together or how make it all stop spiraling. As much as I wanted it, I didn't know how to go back to what I was before.

I didn't know how to make my eyes stop watering when I was alone.

Stuck in this dark fog, every day I meandered around my house, wondering if it was even possible to put myself back together. Worse, sometimes I wondered if it was even worth it to try anymore.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathed in again, concentrating on the perfume that filled my nostrils. Bella always smelled so good – so feminine and perfect – and when my arms tightened around the pillow, I could almost imagine that it was her. I could almost imagine sad, dark eyes looking up my chest at me, patiently waiting for me to finally wake up.

"Fuck it all," I spat, punching the mattress, cursing myself again and again that I couldn't at least do something for her, if for no one else.

With another useless jab at the mattress, I forced myself to sit upright, only to sway and lean back against the headboard. My spine caved and slumped against the hard wood, fighting the urge to just lay back down again.

Like every morning, noon, and night, my mind spun with the knowledge that I was killing her. Slowly but surely, I was dragging her down with me just like I'd known that I would. I saw the evidence every day. I'd seen it that morning when we woke up, in the last smile I'd seen in three weeks.

"_Edward, what did you do?" Bella murmured, circling the furniture that Alice and Jasper had helped me sneak in for Christmas morning. Tracing the delicate spiraling lines of the bed post, she stared up at me with shiny eyes. "Where did you find these?"_

_I ducked my head so that she wouldn't see that I wasn't smiling, too. I couldn't, not when I was still bleeding inside from the night before. "Just found them," I muttered, palming the back of my neck in nervous anticipation. "They should all match your wardrobe. We'll have to bolt the headboard to a frame so that it'll work with your queen mattress."_

"_You didn't have to. I can't believe you." Gray smudges ringed Bella's eyes, making her look about as tired as I felt, but there was a radiant smile affixed to her face. One just for me. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. So much that it hurt to look at her. So much that my throat caught and my lungs ached. _

"_Just wanted you to have something that I knew you loved," I whispered, as I tucked her hair behind her ear, ignoring the tremble of my fingers. _

_A pair of slender arms suddenly snaked around my neck, jerking me down, and without warning or preamble, Bella's smiling mouth attacked mine. She kissed me hard, then sweet and soft, and then hard again, all the while holding onto me as though I'd drift away if she didn't keep me tethered. Relieved, I sank against her, clenching my eyes shut against the surge of mixed emotion and physical sensation. For that brief moment in time, I thought I felt that glimmer of accomplishment again, that sweet sense of victory. _

_But it was gone again the moment she turned me loose. _

A shrill, piercing racket startled me back to the present, making me flinch and wrench my eyes back open. Confused, I looked around until I saw my phone blink to life and vibrate against the nightstand.

Already knowing who it was, reluctantly, I grabbed it from the table, only to pause for a split second before clearing my throat and answering. "Hey."

"Hey. I was afraid I'd missed you." Bella's voice was soft and low.

"Nah, I'm here."

Still low enough I had to strain to hear, she asked, "What's going on?" I knew what she was really asking.

I took a deep breath, slowly dragging air through my nose. "Nothing. What are you doing?"

In the background, there were a dozen or so voices, too muted and distant to discern one from the other. "Getting ready for my lecture."

"Okay."

"I just wanted to check on you."

I could feel where every one of my vertebrae touched the headboard behind me. They were sharp points of _feeling_ that I almost welcomed. "What? Why?" I couldn't even manage to sound surprised. Of course she was checking on me.

Bella laughed, but it was about as convincing as my smiles. I could hear that _something_ in her voice – a hint of words left unsaid. "I can't call when I'm between classes? Maybe I just wanted to."

"It's fine."

This time she was the one who cleared her throat, and I hated the awkwardness between us. "What are you doing?"

Shifting the phone to my other hand, I looked down at the sheets and blankets. And I lied. "Just doing some paperwork."

"Yeah?"

"Need to catch up," I mumbled. I hadn't done a lick of work in over two weeks.

"You want me to come there or you want to come to my house tonight? You didn't answer when I asked before I left."

Truthfully, I didn't remember her leaving this morning at all. "Whatever you want. I'll come over there after you get off work."

"Edward?"

Suppressing a sigh, I clenched my fist around the sheets. "Yeah?"

"When are you going to talk to me?"

"I am."

"No, you're not." She paused as a bell went off, ringing three times in quick succession. "This is new. You didn't do this before."

Hearing the breathy sadness in her voice, my teeth locked and my jaw tightened hard enough that I worried it'd break. Before I could think of any kind of right response, a choked, "I'm sorry," came out, partly out of habit, but mostly because I was… truly sorry.

"Don't say that," she whispered.

"What else can I say?" I swallowed, staring up at the ceiling once more, trying to collect myself. Outside, the clouds had rolled in, hiding the sun. Now the room was cast in monochromatic gray. "You need to go ahead and go. You have a class to teach. I'll see you tonight."

**~.~.~**

With an arm braced on either side of the shower stall, I turned my face toward the falling water and sucked in a lungful of steamy air, reveling in the heat that seemed to scorch my throat and chest. It was hot – too hot and practically scalding – and my skin was already red, yet I didn't dare turn the heat down. It was the only thing that seemed to reach my muscles and ease the perpetual ache.

I stretched and soaked more than I washed. I didn't want her smell off of my skin anyway. It was a reminder of one of the few things I could do for her. As hopeless and lost in my head as I was, I could still make Bella come when I pushed inside her and rolled my hips. I could still make her face scrunch up and I could still make her squirm beneath me and dig her nails in my back.

Never mind that I'd gone down on her as soon as I'd walked through the door, just so that she wouldn't ask me about my day. I didn't want to think about my fucked up motivations because if I did, I'd only feel more disgusted with myself than ever.

Vaguely over the sound of water beating against tile, I could hear her downstairs, banging some pots and pans around in her kitchen. It was a strangely comforting noise, one that made me feel less alone, and for more minutes than I'd intended, I just closed my eyes and listened to those normal, mundane sounds.

By the time I'd finally run through all the hot water and threw on a pair of jeans, it'd been at least an hour since she had gotten out of the shower and gone down to start dinner. As I slowly descended the narrow stairs, however, I realized that the banging pots and kitchen sounds were now silent. In fact, the entire house was quiet. Thinking that Bella had maybe gone out to feed the dog, I crossed through the living room, making my way to the kitchen to see what else needed to be done.

But a soft, muffled sob stopped me just inside the kitchen door.

Hunched over the kitchen table, with one hand covering her eyes, Bella had a phone to her ear and she was quietly crying.

My stomach plummeted in a rapid free fall, diving deeper with every single hitch of her breathing. The air in my lungs solidified and my entire body went cold. I hated seeing her cry with every fiber of my being, and something about her posture and the way her fingers tightly curled around the phone told me everything I knew but didn't want to know.

I should have made my presence known. I should have walked up behind her and pulled her against my chest and held her and told her that everything would be okay. I should have brushed her tears away and kissed her mouth and told her I was sorry again and again until she smiled. I should have done a lot of things.

But I didn't.

Instead, frozen and dying inside, I just stood there and listened.

"I'm okay," she whispered. "No, just… I don't know, tired.

"Yeah.

"I don't know… I just… It's so much. Yeah, some days, I just…" Bella hesitated, taking a deep, steadying breath that didn't seem to help at all.

"Yeah, I know.

"No, I've brought it up. The other night I practically begged him." Her voice quivered, and I watched her press the heel of her palm against her eyes. And I hated myself because I knew exactly what she was talking about. "But he wouldn't go. I'm afraid to push. I'm afraid I'll wind up pushing him away.

"Yes. God, yes, he's worth it. But some days… he… it all just… exhausts me. He doesn't see what's going on." Bella's shoulders shook even harder. "I've tried everything I know. I thought I could handle it. But he's so stubborn, Angela. And lately, since Christmas..."

I closed my eyes, unwilling to watch her and listen at the same time.

"God, it was so bad. He just… completely withdrew from me. He won't talk to me anymore. I don't know how to help him!"

Even across the room, I could hear Bella's therapist's voice through the line. While I couldn't make out her words, they were calm and gentle.

"No, I don't think he's drinking anymore. I haven't seen it or smelled it. Honestly, I don't know if that's not making it worse.

"Would he do what?" My eyes opened again in surprise, just in time to watch Bella's spine abruptly straighten. She was quiet for a long, miserable moment before she whispered, "I don't think so." She shook her head, as if convincing herself more than her therapist. "No, he wouldn't do that. What do I do? He blames himself so much that he just can't see anything else."

A new round of tears started, making it hard for me to understand. But every second I stood there somehow compounded the guilt I already felt. _My fault,_ I thought, clenching the sides of the doorframe to hold myself up. _Always my fault._

"He's just so… _sad_. And despondent. All the time… And I'm afraid for him because I _know_. Angela, I know what he's feeling. And it hurts me so much to see him like this. It just _hurts_. I love him but I hate this so much. And I feel like such a hypocrite for saying that."

Abruptly, Bella looked at the stove, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "I need to go, okay? He'll be down here in a second. I just… needed…"

The room was silent as Angela said something else. It was that kind of silence that ripped into me and carved through my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Okay, I'll come by tomorrow afternoon after work. Thank you." She was quiet for a second more. "Yeah, I promise I'm fine. I'll see you at four."

It felt as though I'd just been punched in the gut. Repeatedly. Unable to move or speak, I just stood there, waiting, aching, and wishing – wishing that I'd never met her. She'd done nothing but confirm everything I already knew and told myself every single day. And it hurt more than I'd ever guessed.

But I wasn't angry with her. I couldn't be. I felt nothing but sadness. For her. For me.

When Bella finally laid the phone down on the table and turned, her eyes widened and her face crumpled in recognition. My vision was a little blurry but I could still see the immediate panic set in.

I smiled the best I could.

"Edward?"

I swallowed back a thick lump. "It's okay. I understand." Because I did understand. So fucking much. And I hated, hated, _hated_ that I'd caused her this kind of misery.

Silent tears leaked down her face as she took a slow step toward me. "You heard me talking to Angela, didn't you?"

"It's okay," I repeated, feeling a heavy weight settle all around me. "Nothing you said wasn't true."

"I don't know what I'm doing," she said, her voice catching on a harsh, loud sob.

Without thought or care, I immediately pulled her to me, wrapping myself around her even as I felt emptier than I ever had before. "Shh, it's all right, Bella. I'm not angry," I murmured, stroking her hair, gently pushing the wet strands off her forehead. I held her against my chest and kissed her softly on the mouth, feeling her lips tremble beneath mine.

"I'm sorry," she stuttered through chattering teeth.

"No." I shook my head. Black numbness swept through my limbs, nearly buckling my knees. "Shh, don't apologize. You said nothing wrong."

"But–" she sobbed, fisting my shirt and burying her face in my neck.

"You didn't say anything I didn't already know. It's okay," I breathed, fighting to keep steady.

Her tears were hot and wet against my neck, as she whispered, "I love you."

My chest felt like it was cracking in two, like I was fracturing into a million pieces. Because you didn't do this kind of shit to people you loved. You didn't drag them into your darkness. You didn't make them sob. You didn't hold them back when you knew that they could fly better and higher without you.

My voice sounded hollow and lifeless in my ears. "I love you, too."

.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Raining in Baltimore_, by Counting Crows.


	43. You Will Find a Man Who's Better

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, Scooterstale and BilliCullen.

* * *

_**You Will Find a Man Who's Better**_

* * *

Exhausted from long weeks of sleepless nights, I slouched against the counter and traced the lines of the tile beneath my feet, lazily following them as they crossed the room and escaped down the hall. With no real end or beginning, the pattern was nearly perfect – French and complex in a way that screamed my mother's touch. Like everything else in this room. Like everything else in the house.

"What do you want to eat?"

My response was automatic, without thought, and flat. "Whatever's fine."

She didn't ask me again.

And for a too-long moment, the loudest sounds in the room were those of my cabinet doors opening and snapping closed. From one end of the kitchen to the other, Bella's movements were swift and succinct, like those of someone going through a series of rote motions. Every now and then, in her haste, an elbow or a wrist brushed up against me, but I wasn't stupid enough to think that it was on purpose or meant to lighten the mood. I was just in the way.

Ten minutes in, the cabinet doors finally stilled, and I forced my eyes from the floor. Looking every bit as tired as I felt, leaning against the open door and still miserably silent, Bella numbly stared into my half-empty refrigerator.

Even muffled by my perpetual fog, this kind of wordless tension was… _excruciating_, so much so that I barely noticed the edge of the countertop digging into my back. Nor did I feel the ache in my hands because my fists curled too tightly inside my pockets. Without her saying a word, I knew that I'd caused it.

She'd been crying.

Again.

While the tears had been wiped away before she walked through the door, I wasn't blind. All the evidence I needed was there in the pink, puffed up skin beneath her eyes. It was in the tired sag of her shoulders and in the schooled straight line of her lips. And when she breathed, in the tense silence of the kitchen, I heard the lingering hitches, as if her lungs still couldn't pull in enough oxygen.

No, I was wrong, I realized, hearing that telltale rasp of air. Bella hadn't been crying; she'd been sobbing.

_My fault. _

Slowly, she turned. "When's the last time you went to the grocery store?"

I shrugged and dropped my gaze back to the floor.

"I was going to make some chicken stew. But you don't have half the ingredients." It felt like she was talking about something else altogether. Maybe she was. Or maybe I was just losing it.

"It's fine," I said, shifting my weight so that the counter's edge dug deeper. "We can order something and have it delivered."

She didn't answer until I looked up again. Her expression was blank and lifeless, made worse by that godawful pink swelling around her eyes. "Pizza or Chinese?"

Swallowing, I clenched my fists tighter and mumbled, "Whatever you want."

"Edward, will you please make a decision?" Frustration leaked into her voice, making her words come out as something between a plea and an angry command.

"Pizza's fine," I answered, picking the first choice she offered without any real thought or care. "My wallet is somewhere by the phone. Just use my card and get whatever type you want."

Sighing, she stared at me for a long minute – sad, frustrated, or just tired of everything, I wasn't sure. When she finally turned to reach for the phone, needing to get away more than anything else, I pushed off the counter and slowly walked to the living room. I half fell into the closest recliner, relieved to no longer be standing.

_Eight weeks_ past Christmas, after all that we'd shared, _this _was what we'd been reduced to: useless, supposedly safe conversations about food.

Because anything else resulted in me shutting down completely.

I knew that I was doing it. I knew that I was falling apart, and I hated that I was. Yet still, no better than five weeks ago when I'd stood in the doorway to her kitchen, listening as she'd cried to her therapist, I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't do a fucking thing except cry like a goddamned girl when I was alone and replay scenes from a life and time long lost.

Every day, every second, it was like I was standing outside of myself, seeing everything around me, watching the world go by, but I couldn't control any of it. I just kept slipping down and down. A little more each day. Into God only knew what.

For the thousandth time, slumped in my recliner and staring at myself in the blackness of the darkened television screen, I cursed and berated myself for pulling Bella down with me, for being too weak to get any better, and more than anything, for being too fucking selfish to let her go.

The rational side of me said that if I really loved her, I'd stop hurting her. One way or another, I'd stop making her cry.

But I was a coward. A selfish fucking coward.

At least I was self-aware.

From the kitchen, the soft click of the phone interrupted my hate-filled ramblings, and after a minute, Bella quietly entered the room, settling in the far corner of the couch opposite me – as far away as possible. When she finally spoke, all she said was, "The delivery guy should be here in forty-five minutes or so."

Nodding as though I cared, I fiddled with the remote. The distance between us almost unbearable, somehow worse than it had been in the kitchen. It was a stark reminder of that afternoon back in November when I'd woken up from passing out drunk, when I'd shamefully blurted that I loved her, and when I'd begged her to let me try again.

But now because my trying wasn't good enough, we were like two strangers, two people who didn't know how to speak to each other. And I despised every foot between us, every unspoken word, every single minute that I spent fucking up whatever it was that we had.

"Why are you still with me?" I whispered, squeezing the remote tight enough that the plastic creaked.

"What?" Her response was immediate, loud compared to my question, and tinged with something that sent a sharp pang through my abdomen. When I dared to look, the glimmer of raw panic in her dark eyes cut straight through me.

"You heard me," I forced out, not really understanding why I was going down this road. I'd lived this conversation enough in my head to know that it ended in nothing but pain for me. But I kept on anyway. "What do I have to offer you?"

_Nothing. _

Her fingers gripped the pillow beside her and pulled it tight against her stomach. "What are you saying?" she breathed. "Why are you asking me this?"

I closed my eyes because I couldn't look at her and continue. "I'm asking: why do you love me? I'm not making you happy." Shaking my head, I barked a humorless laugh. "Hell, I don't know if I ever have. But right now…now, I know I'm not."

"Edward–"

"Bella, I can barely hold myself upright." I paused and frowned, tasting the bitterness of truth. "So what are you doing with me?"

"Why are you asking me this?" she repeated, what little life left in her voice falling away.

"You deserve someone better." Saying the words out loud hurt. They physically hurt. "You shouldn't have to deal wi–"

"Bullshit!" The volume and the conviction in her voice startled me. When I opened my eyes and found hers, they were bright, shining like glass in the low lamplight. Abruptly, her whole face flickered to life, tinting red with a surge of anger. Before I could open my mouth to respond, she flung the pillow in her lap to the side, balled her fists, and yelled, "Damn it, Edward! Will you stop saying that shit!"

My eyes widened and I winced from the punch of her voice, but I said nothing, instead allowing her to vent. It was the first time I could recall when Bella had raised her voice to me – or to anyone, for that matter. It was the first time she'd ever lost her temper. And it was strangely satisfying – comforting even – because more than the fact that I deserved whatever she threw at me, at least it told me that I hadn't broken her.

For a long time, we were quiet again, both of us stewing in the tension, neither of us really knowing what to do or say to make it all go away. While outwardly calm and motionless, inside, I was boiling, rapidly coming unglued. My heart was flying, slamming against my sternum with every beat, and my head pounded in time, pulsing behind my eyes. Too much more and I was sure that I'd lose whatever lunch remained from this afternoon.

Finally, unable to take any more silence, gathering what little bit of resolve I had left, I softly said, "You didn't answer my question." My hands threatened to tremble, so I hid them in my lap, still hanging on to the remote as though it could offer some kind of grounding. "Am I making you happy? Are you happy?"

Bella stilled then. "What do you mean?" she whispered, staring at her lap.

"Just tell me. Are you happy right now?"

When she lifted her face, I had my answer. Her lips twisted into a pained grimace and barely loud enough for me to hear, she said, "No. I'm not. Not right now."

That familiar sting of salt in my eyes made me look away.

I'd asked for it.

I'd asked for the truth, and there it was. Out loud, undeniable proof of what I already knew.

"Are you even going to look at me?" She paused and drew the pillow to her stomach again, squeezing it until it was a tiny ball. Her knuckles were white. "Say something, Edward."

I slowly turned back toward her, fighting my own expression and suppressing every instinct I had to fall at her feet and beg. Taking a deep breath, I dropped my head to my palm, and then sighed in defeat. "What do you want me to say?"

"You've just given up, haven't you? Why?"

For what seemed like the hundredth time tonight alone, I shrugged, powerless and ill-equipped to put everything I felt into words.

Bella leaned her head back against the couch cushion and stared at the ceiling. "You're trying to push me away, aren't you?"

When I didn't respond, she asked again. "Answer me. You're actually _trying_ to push me away. Tell me I'm wrong."

I couldn't, because on some level, she was absolutely right.

"Edward?"

"Yeah."

She started, hesitated, and then started again, closing her eyes as she spoke. "Why won't you see a therapist?"

"You know why," I muttered. "I told you. I did try–"

"God, will you stop!" she snapped, popping the cushion beside her hard enough to make me jump. "You went once every other week for like what? Three months?"

Without thinking, I corrected her. "It was four."

"Yeah, and whatever he did was _wrong_." Her voice softened once more, turning into a desperate pleading that made me ache. "Please, please just… try again. Why won't you _try,_ for God's sake?"

For a split second, all I could see was the pinched, furious, and accusing features of my father's face, the same one that had once been anything but, and my ears rang, shutting out everything but his familiar voice. It was devoid of the kindness I once knew and instead angry and bitter and awash with disappointment.

In some kind of fucked up symphony that only my mind could create, the memory of my brother's voice chimed in, too, echoing on top of my father's… And then my mother's… My old therapist's… Jasper's… _Maria's_… And now… now, Bella's voice joined in, piercing and louder than all the rest.

Everyone who had ever mattered to me was suddenly screaming a loud, repeating chorus of:

"_You're not even trying, are you?" _

Followed by:

"_Do you just not want to get better?" _

I just wanted them to all… _shut up_.

Every one of them. I wanted to scream back that I _had_ tried, that I'd taken their pills, that I'd read their books, that I'd cut out the one comfort that I'd had, that I'd tried my fucking damnedest to be what Bella and my whole goddamned family wanted me to be.

I was so sick and tired of being the ruined one, the one who needed fixing, the one who always, _always_ disappointed, the one she tip-toed around. I was tired of pretending.

I was tired of trying.

As I leaned forward and stood from my seat, my heart rate soared even higher, pushing blood through my veins so fast that my whole body felt numb. I could barely even see, and only vaguely did I realize that I was shaking, pissed off and miserable and on the verge of exploding.

And I just wanted her to… _go away_.

So that maybe my head would stop spinning for one fucking minute.

Bella followed me up from couch, sharp worry creasing her brow, and she extended her hand as if to soothe. "Edward? Are you okay?"

The softness of her voice was my undoing, and I flinched away as if struck. The smooth, raised line along the inside of her wrist caught the light, and I couldn't stop myself.

The remote flew out of my hand, crashing into the wall, splintering into a hundred pieces, and I lost it.

"I'm not the one who slit my goddamned wrists!"

Time halted.

I blinked, stunned at what had just come out of my mouth, incapable of taking it back because I couldn't even breathe, let alone talk. I didn't know where it had come from. Or why. It just came out, and like lightning had struck, the realization of what I'd just said made my body and head instantly freeze in a moment of horrific dread.

It looked like I'd just sucker punched her. Mouth agape, her breath came out in a single, strangled choking sound, and her shoulders collapsed and folded inward. In what I could only call panic, Bella looked from me to the front door and then back again.

And when I saw the way she hugged her arms around her chest and cradled her scarred wrist, mindlessly thumbing its ridge, I realized that I'd done more damage to her in that one stupid phrase than anything else. I might as well have physically beat her.

Forever seemed to pass – a forever hell of waiting, of being too dumbfounded and ashamed and angry at myself to even speak, let alone try to explain anything.

When she took a step back from me, I reached for her, but she just stepped back again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I whispered, repeating the one phrase I could manage, too terrified of what I'd just done to come up with anything else.

"Stop it." Her hand sliced the air between us.

Abruptly, her spine straightened, and the wounded expression I'd caused vanished. In its place was one I'd never seen.

"No. You didn't slit your _goddamned_ wrists," she said, low and _cold_. "You're right. _I_ did that. I did that because I couldn't deal with the death of my son. Who died two years ago_, tomorrow._"

Instantly sick, I swallowed back a mouthful of bile and copper from where I'd bitten my tongue.

"You want to know something?" she went on, still so cold and angry. "I fucked up. Just like what you're doing right now. You are, you know. You're fucking up because you're stubborn, and because you have this stupid idea that you somehow deserve," she waved her hand at me, "all this angst and guilt."

Bella shook her head. "The difference between us is that I did something about it afterward – I'm _doing _something about it. Every fucking day, I'm doing something about it. Because I want to live and be happy again."

Restrained hurt and fury was what I saw in the brace of her jaw and in the tightly balled fists by her sides, but instead of yelling, her voice unexpectedly quieted to just above a whisper and shook.

"I can't help you anymore, Edward. God forgive me, I can't."

My lungs spasmed, and the floor beneath me fell away.

"I love you. So much… I love you more than the man I once called my husband. I love you _too much_.

"But I can't fix you," she breathed, shaking her head again, this time slowly – in recognition. "No one can."

I watched, reeling from a full body pain I couldn't recall ever experiencing, as she wiped away twin lines of hot, silent tears. "I want you to see a therapist. I want you to talk to your family. I want you to finally see that none of what happened with your sister is your fault. Because it's not. Life happens. Accidents happen.

"I want you to be happy. I want that so much it hurts.

"But… but I can't keep watching you do this to yourself," she said, swiping away another line of tears. Her mouth opened, then closed, before her face shuttered, erasing any window I had into her thoughts or emotions. "For my own health, I _won't_."

Quickly, without another word, she walked past me, close enough that I could have stopped her had I reached out, and then without looking back, the person I loved more than anything walked out the door and out of my life.

.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Sincerely_, by The Benjy Davis Project. [btw if you've never listened to this song, it's amazing, and the lyrics are just stunning]


	44. I Step to the Edge

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, beta lady, Scooterstale, and pre-reader, BilliCullen. And thank you, too, Ms. FantasyMother, for helping me with a couple of important things in this chapter. :)

* * *

_**I Step to the Edge**_

* * *

_Alone. _

For the first time in so many months, I was utterly alone.

Alone in my head. Alone in my house.

The solitude and silence of it scraped across my frayed nerves like sandpaper and left me gasping.

Shell-shocked and completely lost, I now spent my daylight hours wandering through the rooms, not really knowing what I was doing or why, instead just going through a meaningless series of motions that was just enough to keep me breathing.

Not knowing what else to do, I slept sometimes – or tried to – hiding under sheets and hugging a pillow that had long since lost the last remaining hints of her perfume. I told myself that at least when I was asleep, the ache now permanently situated inside my chest was bearable. Most of the time, however, because God hated me, I was incapable of any kind of real rest. Exhausted yet wide awake, I just lay on my back in the middle of the bed, staring up at the ceiling and squinting against the too-bright light that seeped in through the slits between the blinds.

Sometimes – when I remembered – I hauled myself down to the kitchen to eat, forcing a bare minimum down my throat even though my tongue tasted nothing. Everything was cardboard, and all of it made my stomach churn.

I showered every now and then, but it was only to purposefully scour my skin until I couldn't stand it anymore. Most of the time, I just didn't bother at all. It wasn't like I really cared about the growth on my face or the grease in my hair. None of that mattered. No one would see me anyway. She wouldn't see.

Every hour of every day felt like I was wading through concrete, as though my body just didn't have enough power in it to move, let alone fight the constant pangs of hurt in my chest.

The repeating circuit of _I knew you would fuck it all up_ and _you deserve this_ and _she's so much better off now _made me not even want to try.

Even when I begged myself for a moment of escape – a second of reprieve – my own head beat me back and spun like a top, relentlessly conjuring scenes I'd do anything to forget. The old ones were always there, of course. But the new ones – vivid, three-dimensional snapshots of the tears in her eyes and the angry sadness in her voice – made me want to curl up and ask for oblivion. More times per day than I'd ever want to admit, my eyes leaked without reason or warning.

There was no question that my so-called _life_ had descended into nothing more than a pathetic, wallowing existence, and I was utterly _miserable_, inconsolable in a way that I hadn't guessed was ever possible. I'd had no idea. None whatsoever.

Because I was a masochist of the highest order, as if my days weren't bad enough, every night as soon as the sun went down, I followed the same path from my bed to my mess of an office, where I slumped down deep in my old leather chair.

Like so many months ago, I just sat there in the dark and stared through the window across the yard, unable to tear myself away. For endless hours, I watched those familiar flickering squares of light in the house I hadn't set foot in for more than two weeks.

Every fucking night, eyes glued to the only part of her that I was still allowed to see, I watched and cursed and cried and _wanted. _

And because I didn't know any other way to stop hurting, I drank.

Tonight it was fifteen-year-old Macallan – a hundred dollars' worth of spice and numb.

**~.~.~**

I was drifting on the edge of restless sleep when it started raining. At first, it was just light, irregular taps on the window that barely registered, but then, slowly, those taps turned into a dull roar against the roof overhead. Every few minutes, riding on an incoming front, distant peals of low-pitched thunder rumbled the house. What was normally soothing suddenly sounded loud and jarring, so much so that my muscles tensed with each soft crack of the air.

About the time the sky flashed white, my eyes fluttered open and then shot wide in disoriented confusion, only to immediately target the dark outline of the house in front of me. Stretching stiff joints and limbs, I straightened in the chair and leaned forward until my face was only inches from the glass.

Every light in her downstairs rooms blazed bright yellow, a stark contrast to the blackness of the night all around. Even from this distance and warped by the droplets that clung to the window, the image looked like a beacon.

Swallowing, I glanced down to my wrist.

Five after three.

"What are you doing, Bella?" I whispered, resting my elbows on my knees. My tongue was thick from disuse, so my whisper came out rough and low.

Why she was awake, I didn't know, especially since she had class to teach tomorrow. But the fact that she still was and that I was _here_ made that hateful stabbing in my chest start up all over again, and my teeth gritted against the onslaught.

Burying my face in my hands, the sounds of the storm faded until all I could hear were those damning words – ones that made my mouth run dry – repeating on constant circuit. _"No. You didn't slit your goddamned wrists. I did that. I did that because I couldn't deal with the death of my son. Who died two years ago, tomorrow."_

And I hated myself _so much_. I hated what I'd become and that I was so fucking weak.

I'd said the unforgivable and then I'd done the unforgivable. I'd let her leave. I stood there with my mouth wide open in shock and let her walk away. And then I'd failed her all over again because I'd done nothing the next day – the one day out of the year when she'd probably needed me the most. I'd done absolutely nothing. Other than swallow back a fifth of scotch.

Before I even realized what I was doing, my shaking fingers blindly reached left for the table beside me – for the tumbler of melted ice and the bottle I'd somehow yet to open. But they found plastic before glass – the phone I'd put on silent and refused to answer ever since I'd lost her. When I looked over, the little red light in the top corner winked at me mockingly.

I wanted the damned thing to stop blinking.

But when my thumb grazed the buttons, it missed, and instead of going black, the screen came to life, glowing bright white behind a long line of names.

_Feb 25, 2011 3:01 – Mom_

_Feb 26, 2011 5:57 – Mom_

_Feb 26, 2011 6:59 – E. Cullen_

_Feb 27, 2011 1:36 – C. Cullen_

_Feb 27, 2011 4:17 – E. Cullen_

_Feb 28, 2011 12:11 – J. Whitlock_

_Feb 28, 2011 3:42 – E. Cullen_

_Feb 28, 2011 8:46 – Mom_

_Feb 28, 2011 9:28 – R. Cullen_

_Mar 1, 2011 1:51 – C. Cullen_

_Mar 1, 2011 2:19 – E. Cullen_

_Mar 1, 2011 4:12 – E. Cullen_

Two weeks' worth of ignored calls and messages, the list went on and on. My mother's name showed up at least a dozen times, my father's half of that. Rosalie's, Jasper's, and Emmett's. My brother had called every single day, sometimes twice.

Shaking my head, I scrolled and clicked through the last few messages, stupidly and selfishly praying for the one name I knew wouldn't be there.

_Son, just wanted to check on you. –C. _

_Ed, answer the phone. –Em_

_Please call me. I want to make sure you're okay. We're worried about you. –Mom_

_Damn it, you asshole. At least text me back so that I know you're still alive. If I don't hear from you, I'll be pissed off and on your porch in the morning. –Em _

My fingers trembled and my vision blurred as I tried to find the right keys. In the end, all I could manage was a short, _I'm fine, _even though I was anything but.

Sick and still reeling from the nonstop litany of Bella's voice in my ears, I just stared at the screen, at the list of people who for whatever reason gave a damn about me even when I didn't, and at the lie of a message I'd just typed, feeling… fuck if I knew.

All I knew was that it hurt. _I_ hurt – my eyes, my head, my gut, my muscles, that goddamned canyon that had formed where my sternum once was two weeks ago.

Everything fucking _hurt. _

And for the first time in my life, I honestly considered walking downstairs, unlocking the cabinet by the fireplace, and pulling out the .357 I'd inherited from my grandfather.

At least then I wouldn't feel _this _anymore.

Sweat beaded along my forehead as the temperature in the room turned from cool to sweltering.

It'd be quick and easy. _So_ _easy_.

I gripped the phone tighter and stared at the outline of me reflected in the glass. Behind my image, the lights in her house still glowed.

I blinked, and a picture of Bella's slender wrist filled my vision – that jagged scar I despised with everything in me. As though I were there beside her right now, I could hear her crying in her bed that night she showed me her demons, and I could feel the surge of my own relief when I'd made her swear to me she'd never do that again. The thought of her dying was absolutely unbearable, so nauseating that it made the room tilt and spin.

I couldn't do that. Not to her. Not to my family.

But deep down, I knew that I was anyway.

_"I don't know if you see just how sick you are… How you're going to kill yourself if you don't find a way to stop. If you can't find a way to deal with what happened,"_ she'd said once.

Panting and dripping sweat, I flung the phone away, threw open the window, and thrust my head between the sash and the sill. Desperate for some kind of relief, leaning half way out of the house, I sucked down lungfuls of damp air. It was frigid, carrying with it an ice-cold mist that made my bare chest tighten and shiver. But I could almost breathe.

With the window up, the rain was louder, beating against the side of the house, punctuated by another round of thunder. Droplets hit my face and ran into my eyes, but I didn't dare move. Instead, I listened to the loudness, closed my eyes, and inhaled as deeply as I could.

It was when the thunder had died down again that I heard it.

Barely discernible over the rain and the distance, I caught the soft, bluesy riffs of a song I knew oh-so-well. My eyes squeezed and my fingertips dug into the sill because I _remembered_ this song. It was the same one she played so many months ago, before all of this – before I'd even known her at all.

The sadness of it – the desolation and despair, the lamenting cry of a man who'd lost his only light – and more so that she was back to playing it again – that she was hurting, too – damned near knocked me to the floor.

"_No_. No, no, no," I chanted, choking on a mouthful of rain before sliding back inside and down to my knees. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry."

Unthinking, I reached back behind me for the bottle on the table.

The glass was cold and smooth and so familiar – like a welcoming friend at the end of a long journey. In the low lamplight, the label glittered gold and red and promised the kind of numbness I wanted so much.

Gulping back a lump of salt, I cracked the lid and brought the lip to my nose.

It smelled like a dream – like warmth and comfort and spice and smoke and heat.

And then, with everything I had left, I threw the whole thing out the window.

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:** For those keeping track, this chapter occurs on or about March 10, 2011, a little over two weeks after B left, which was a little over eight weeks after Christmas.

I don't expect anyone to recall all the way back to chapter 6. That was before E began helping B paint her house. Unable to sleep, he'd gone outside in the early morning hours, only to discover that she was still awake, too. He watched the lights in her windows from his porch and heard the music she was playing. The song referred to back then and now above is the same one: _Ain't No Sunshine_, by Bill Withers. The scene in the second segment is an intentional parallel to his life before B.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _The World I Know_, by Collective Soul.


	45. As the Daytime is Stirring

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, beta lady, Scooterstale, and pre-reader, BilliCullen.

* * *

**_As the Daytime is Stirring_**

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

Silence answered me.

Exhausted to the point of falling over, I leaned against the open door, gripping the doorknob for the balance I didn't have on my own. Against my spine, the wood was solid yet hard, and as soon as contact was made, the coldness of it seeped through my t-shirt and made my whole body tense. With a sigh, ignoring the discomfort, I propped my head against the wood and asked him again. "Emmett, why are you here?"

Even I could hear that my words ran together in a tired slur.

Still not speaking, my brother's shoulders rose and then fell before he lifted his ball cap and roughly raked his fingers through his hair. After a second more and another rise and fall of his shoulders, with his hands on his hips, he slowly turned away from the driveway to face me.

I grimaced the moment our eyes met.

Gone was the usual laughter. Gone was the cheerful grin that he always seemed to wear. Instead, as he stared at me, no doubt cataloging my bloodshot eyes, week-old beard, and disheveled appearance, Emmett's features hardened and pinched into an expression that I could only take for anger. Or maybe it was just disgust. Most likely, it was both of those, I realized. And after last night, I didn't have it in me to blame him. Honestly, after last night, I didn't have much left in me at all.

After a second, the hands at his hips balled into tight fists and he shook his head.

Unable to stomach the fight that I knew was coming, I just looked away, past him and to the light coat of gray-white frost on the grass. But it was all just a blur, and I could still feel the weight of his stare – the undisguised disappointment that made my shoulders sag – and it made me want to disappear.

"Goddamnit, Edward!" he yelled.

He was pissed off and loud, echoing in the silence of the yard, and the sudden volume made me instantly flinch and white-knuckle the doorknob. Glaring at me with a level of anger I'd never seen from him, he yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and held it up in a quivering hand for me to see. For a second, from the way his shoulders bunched, I honestly thought my brother was going to throw the damned thing. But instead, seeing what in my face I didn't know, he just shook his head again and spat on the ground.

"You are _not_ fine."

My stomach sank and I closed eyes, ashamed, recalling the way my fingers had shaken last night as I'd typed out that lie of a response to his last text. When I said nothing to disagree with him, I heard a slow, deep intake of breath, and his voice quieted. "Why didn't you answer when I called?"

I cleared my throat to buy time and then offered the only excuse I had. "I– I haven't really been…"

Emmett cut me off with a bark of a laugh and an indignant huff. "Answering the phone? No shit. Tell me something I don't know."

Slowly, embarrassed and ill-prepared for this conversation – now, of all times – I dipped my head. "I've been…"

"Busy?" he finished again.

"No." My jaw stung, and remembering my last few hours, I couldn't hide the break in my voice. "No, not busy." Sucking in shallow breath, I opened my eyes, and when I met his angry glare again, this time, despite my quaking nerves, I held it as long as I could, hoping that my brother could see what I couldn't say.

A minute passed by or maybe an hour before he looked up at the gray sky and softly cursed.

He hesitated, as if he were deciding something then and there, and his fists flexed, but when he looked back down a second later, the tight lines of his forehead had eased and without warning, he rocked forward and shot up the stairs.

"Well?" Emmett asked, forcing a hint of a smile. The change in tone baffled me. "Are you going to let me in or what?" Not bothering to wait for my answer or invitation, he pushed past me and headed straight for the kitchen. "And where's your coffee?"

For a split second, I just stood there in the open doorway, confused and swaying. When he called out again, I heard myself mumble a low, "I doubt I have any. If I do, it's probably old," before I closed the door and followed him inside.

"Doesn't matter," he grumbled, ignoring me, as he began quickly rifling through the cabinets, stopping only once he'd found a red tin I didn't even know I had. "It's fucking early. Old is better than nothing. Do you have cream or milk?"

"I don't know."

For the whole five minutes it took for my coffee maker to begin spitting out the thick, black liquid he called coffee, we didn't speak. Not really understanding why he was here, I just slid onto the stool across the bar, silently and dumbly watching him pour the last bit of milk I had into two mugs and stir in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar.

"You look like shit," he muttered, as he slid one of the cups across the counter. Staring into the sloshing liquid, I palmed the cup with both hands, feeling the heat radiate through my skin.

"I know."

Settling on a stool opposite me, Emmett took a drink and frowned. "No, seriously. You look like someone beat the hell out of you. Are you hung over?"

A miserable kind of heat crept up my neck, making me shift my focus to the mottled granite. When I finally answered, the words came out so quietly I wasn't even sure if he could hear. "No. Not this morning."

"Not this morning?" He paused and exhaled through his nose. "You're drinking again?"

"I have been."

I wasn't sure why I told him – why I didn't just keep my fucking mouth shut – but I did, and in response, my fingers tightened around my cup and beneath the counter, my knee bounced a quick, nervous rhythm. With every bit of internal fortitude I had, tamping down the sudden swell in my gut, I added in a whisper, "I'm not going to… anymore."

"Anymore?" The disbelief in his voice made me want to crawl under the table.

Instead of hiding, however, I shook my head as more trembling words spilled out of my mouth without permission. "No." I shook my head harder, feeling the bite of that godawful stab in my chest all over again. "No… I dumped everything in the house." I motioned to the white trash bag tied up in the corner. "And there's a bottle of scotch somewhere out in the yard."

"When?"

"Last night." My knee bounced faster.

There was a second of silence before he quietly asked, "Why?"

I swallowed back about half of my coffee, stalling, having no idea what I was doing or what I was saying.

"Why?" Emmett pressed. "You stopped before. Why now?"

When I blinked, the room seemed to tilt and spin. The stool below me vanished, and I was suddenly falling though open air. Out-of-focus, half-formed faces flashed, and a half a dozen voices – memories of voices – screamed in my ears.

The loudest of all, however, was my own – nearly five years' worth of words that I'd yelled, that I'd cried, that I'd never meant to say.

"I– I think…" I started, then abruptly stopped so that I could take a breath. My fingertips dug into the top of my thigh and my jaw ached from the grit of my teeth. "I don't want to be that person anymore." I took another breath and dropped my head to my palm. "Something… fuck me, something has to change."

My brother's face softened and he slumped forward. "Do you need to go to a hospital or something?"

I hadn't thought that far ahead. No, I was only to the part about stopping – for good. Not like the last time or the time before.

"No… maybe," I fumbled. "Damn it, I don't know. I want to stay here. Try to at least." When I looked left, through the window, I saw the small white house in the distance and the empty driveway beside it. "If that doesn't work…." I sighed. "Then, yeah."

When I turned back, Emmett's throat bobbed, and there was hopefulness in his expression that I came nowhere close to deserving. And the fact that it was still there, just below the surface – waiting – after all this time made my chest ache for a different reason.

"Really?"

I nodded and attempted a small smile.

"Do you…" He hesitated. "Do want me to stay with you for a few days so that you're not by yourself?"

I _almost_ doubled over, and my vision blurred as I bit down to suppress the involuntary tremble of my lower lip. An emphatic, ingrained_, No_, was on the tip of my tongue, but when I opened my mouth, something else altogether came out. "Yeah," I whispered. "That'd be… good."

**~.~.~**

It took two days for me to stop shaking. Two days of sweating and throwing up and sleeping in no more than hour-long fits. Every single time I woke up, my head spun, my throat burned, and I automatically reached left – for the bottle that was no longer there.

By the third day, however, after a shower and a shave, the pounding in my head settled into a dull, persistent throb and the rest of me, while sore, managed to stay still when I demanded it. And when Emmett shoved a ham sandwich in my lap, I realized that, at least physically, I felt _almost_ human, never mind that I still didn't know where this was all going or what I was going to do.

"Was it that bad the last time you stopped?" Emmett asked, plopping down on the couch beside me and opening up a bag of chips. Grabbing the remote, he turned on the television but left the volume on mute.

Still queasy, I forced down a bite so that I could think. Swallowing hurt, and my tongue and throat were raw from all the vomiting, so my answer came out rougher than I intended. "No."

"Why not?"

I shrugged and took another bite. "No clue. Maybe because… before I hadn't been drinking as much."

The bag of chips crackled loudly. "How much this time?"

Pretending to concentrate on the scrolling line of scores at the bottom of the screen, I tried to remember what I could. Other than a few vague visions of sitting upstairs and staring out the window at Bella's house and aimlessly wandering around mine, it wasn't much. When I thought long and hard, pulling on what little I could, all I really remembered was just how miserable I was – how everything hurt all the time and how I'd done everything I could to escape it.

"A lot," I finally said.

In my periphery, Emmett spun toward me, tucking his ankle beneath the opposite thigh and stretching his arm across the back of the sofa. "How much is a lot?"

"I don't know…" I swallowed, trying to ignore the crawl beneath my skin. "Bottle or two a day."

"Jesus." He looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. Softer, he said, "I should have come here sooner."

I stared at the flickering images on the television. "No, you shouldn't have." Confused, his head popped up. "I wouldn't have listened to you."

For a long while, we were quiet. But this kind of quiet I found I could handle. It wasn't loud or awkward, and strangely enough, my brother didn't try to fill it. Instead, in so many ways, for a few minutes, the silence was almost calming, so much so that for the first time in so many days, I could actually think.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I softly said, leaning my head back against the cushion so that I could watch the way the light from the television reflected off the ceiling.

"What do you mean?" I heard Emmett ask.

"I don't know what to do next." It was half a confession, half a plea. "She's not going to forgive me, you know. I can't blame her, either."

"Yes, she will."

Turning my head slightly, I looked over to my brother. Emmett had slouched down too, assuming the same position as me. "She shouldn't," I said, incapable of saying Bella's name out loud. "Not after what I said. Not after what I did."

"Bullshit. You need to call her. Or walk over there."

Not wanting to argue, I shifted my focus back to the ceiling, watching the way it turned from white to pale pink and then to green.

"What was it like for you?" I whispered, closing my eyes.

Not answering at first, all I heard was the creak of leather and a shallow intake of air. When I opened my mouth to ask again, however, he replied a quiet, "What do you mean?"

"What was it like…" I started again, picturing a face I hadn't seen in so long. "After Maria died?"

Emmett cleared his throat and there was another creak of leather. "You don't want to know."

"Yeah," I breathed. "I do."

He waited until I opened my eyes and looked at him again. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, he frowned and then stared off into space. A forever passed before Emmett finally answered, and when he did, there was a tightness in his voice – a kind of controlled pain – that I'd never heard from him before. "Awful… it was awful."

Dry-washing his face, he talked to the floor. "I spent most days with Mom, you know. Here."

Sitting up, I mimicked his pose. "Why?"

Still talking to the floor, he shook his head slowly. "She was in bad shape. I don't know. She cried all the time. She wouldn't eat."

Half of me regretted asking, hating what I was hearing, hating myself for not already knowing. "Where was Dad?"

Glancing over, Emmett's brows folded into a sharp 'v'. "You don't remember?"

"No," I muttered, shoving my fingers through my hair. "I don't remember much from… right after."

"I guess you wouldn't," he replied. Something between a laugh and a sigh followed. "You were still in the hospital. And then after you got out… you weren't really… around that much."

"I know. I'm so–"

"Dad went back to work," Emmett continued, not giving me time to dwell. "Pretty much immediately. I don't think he could stand being here all day."

"I–"

Fiddling with a thread unraveling from his shirt, he whispered, "That night you and Jasper fought… I'll never forget that. That was… the worst." When my brother looked at me then, his eyes were glassy and his lips were mashed together. "You don't even remember that, do you?"

The few bites I'd taken felt like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach. "Just the fight."

"You came back to the house. Had blood all over you from where Jasper busted your lip and nose. Your face was swollen. Every time you took a step, I could tell that your side was killing you. Mom lost it the second she saw you like that."

In a sudden rush, I could taste the blood from that night – copper and salt and rain - pasted on my tongue and running down my throat. I could feel the ache in my knuckles, the soreness of my jaw, the bruising on my face and arms. When I took a deep breath, expanding my lungs and ribcage, the skin that had been sewn shut between my ribs so long ago tingled and itched.

"And Dad…" Emmett went on, talking mostly to himself. "Christ. He just… started yelling at you." My brother's head jerked back and forth and his voice wavered. "It was like the first bit of emotion I'd seen from him since the funeral. He was saying all sorts of stupid shit. Shit there was no way he meant."

My eyes squeezed shut.

"And you… fuck, you just stood there. Didn't say a fucking word. Just stood there and stared at him like you were dead inside and… you just _took it_."

"He was right," I whispered, gripping the armrest beside me.

"No, he wasn't." My brother's eyes shot to mine. "No, he _wasn't_. By the time he realized all the shit he'd said… you were already gone and you didn't pick up the phone. We didn't see you for a while."

"I know."

"You just kind of…"

"Checked out." I sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

Emmett swallowed and fisted the cushion. "That was the only time I've ever seen Dad cry. He didn't even cry at the funeral. But he did after you left."

I didn't know what to do with that. The words didn't make any sense to me.

"Did it get better for you?" I asked, begging inside that he'd follow my lead and change the topic.

After a long pause, granting the wish I couldn't speak out loud, he smiled a tight smile. "Yeah."

"How?"

"Time. I don't know," he said. "Eventually, I figured out that it wasn't worth it to hang on to what I couldn't change." He stopped and smiled again, this time almost wistfully. "I'd be lying if I said that things didn't get a lot better when I met Rosalie. I had someone to talk to."

That crack across my sternum throbbed as Bella's face flashed across my memory. It was sharp enough and strong enough that it nearly stole my breath. It called attention to every ache and every pain and every bit of soreness that I'd accumulated over the years, and suddenly, I just wanted to lie down and close my eyes.

"Emmett?"

"Yeah?"

I gulped and tasted salt. "I'm tired."

"Of?"

"I'm just… _tired_," I breathed, sagging against the cushion behind me. "I'm tired of feeling like shit all the time."

"Then do something about it."

.

.

.

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**A/N: **Re: that fight with Jasper. Like last chapter, I don't expect you ladies to remember everything, lol. Check out Chap17 for a bit of a flashback from that night if you'd like a refresh.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _On the Turning Away_, by Pink Floyd.

Since a few people have asked me, I thought I'd answer here. Each chapter title in this fic is taken from a line in a song. Each song (its lyrics, themes, etc) has some significance/relevance to the contents of its respective chapter.

For this chapter, really the whole song is fitting to Emmett's decision to involve himself, but the last stanza in particular:

_No more turning away / from the weak and the weary / no more turning away / from the coldness inside / just a world that we all must share / it's not enough just to stand and stare_


	46. Leave Love Bleeding in My Hands

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Scooterstale and BilliCullen are two of the loveliest ladies I know. **

* * *

_**Leave Love Bleeding in My Hands**_

* * *

My thumb hovered over the send button for the sixth time in less than two days, waiting for the rest of me to catch up and finally give it the go ahead to depress. Like the last five times I'd tried this, the moment I scrolled to her name and saw the letters in bold, unmistakable black and white, my mouth instantly dried out and my stomach plummeted into a sharp nosedive. Unable to look away, trying in vain to keep my breathing steady, I stared at screen until it was nothing but a marble swirl.

_You need to call her_, Emmett had said.

Easier said than done, even though every part of me wanted to fall at her feet and beg for her forgiveness.

For that, and for patience.

Unlike my brother, however, I wasn't so sure that Bella would answer at all, let alone hear me out and give me the chance to say my sorrys. And if that were the case, if she refused, it wasn't like I could fault her in any way, not after all that had been said and done, not after all the times and ways I'd managed to wound her over the past few months. Nonetheless, being the coward that I was, it was that possibility – that _probability_ – of outright rejection that terrified me and paralyzed my floating thumb, because I knew, deep down, that it would hurt far, far worse than not knowing.

As if on cue, a reminding stab of pain, a visceral echo of that moment when she'd walked out my door, pulled my fist to my chest and stole the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless and aching.

_I should just leave her alone_, I told myself for the hundredth time. I should walk away and let her live her life, let her move on and find the happiness she deserves. I should do a lot of things.

But every time I'd made up my mind to do just that, like right now, surging from somewhere in the back of my mind and playing in time to the incessant hollow throb in my chest, all I could hear was that godawful haunting melody from nights ago. And reliving those miserable few seconds in the pouring rain, I couldn't stop myself from thinking that maybe, just maybe, she missed me, too, and that maybe there was some chance on God's green earth that I could show her, that I could prove to her, that one day I could be what she and I both needed. That I'd at least heard her that night she left and was now willing to try.

Anyone with half a brain would laugh to hear me talk. I hadn't even been sober a week. I hadn't even figured out what number to call. And when I closed my eyes in my piss poor attempts to sleep, I still saw the same old sights and heard the same old screams, and when the house was too quiet, I still sank toward the bottom.

Really, if I were being honest, all I had right now was… _intent_. Albeit stronger and more sincere than I'd ever been since the day I'd earned those scars between my ribs, it was still just half a plan and a lot of want, buried beneath a mountain of desperation.

In my periphery, the wrinkled piece of notebook paper on the table glared at me and my stupid meanderings. Worse, the long list of pencil-scrawled names and numbers and the matching specialties that I could barely pronounce called me the fool I was and told me that I wasn't ready for this, reminding me yet again that I probably couldn't handle any more hurting right now.

I counted forward to a hundred, closing my eyes, just trying to breathe again and to push back the rising anxiety.

_Just call her, Edward. Give her the benefit of the doubt,_ he'd said. _Talk to her, for God's sake. _

When I opened my eyes again, that ball of anxiety still sat at the bottom of my stomach, leaden and dense, but at least it was manageable. At least I wasn't dizzy. And at least my skin didn't itch and crawl quite so much.

With one last glance at the table and every bit of the resolve I had left, I bit my tongue and pressed.

Her phone rang for what had to have been an hour, each time a kick to my gut.

"Hello?"

For a second, I couldn't speak at all, shocked by the impact of the sound of her voice. Everything I'd come up with – all of the smart, articulate words I'd practiced while laying in bed last night and half the day today – left my mind and left me blank.

"Edward?" Bella's voice was so, _so_ soft, and the way she said my name made my insides twist.

"Hey," I managed. Jittery and incapable of stillness, I stood up and paced the length of the kitchen.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, no doubt wondering why the hell I'd called and what I wanted. And I had no clue what to do next.

"How are you?" she finally asked, saving me from myself.

I coughed and cleared my throat, trying to buy just a little bit more time so that my brain could unfreeze, but that I was here, now, talking to her, after so many days of imagining it, made it almost impossible.

"Better than I was," I heard myself say. Gripping the phone a little tighter, I then fumbled an awkward and shaky, "How are you?"

"I've been better," Bella whispered then paused. I hated that hesitation. "But okay, I guess."

That awful empty ache in my chest pulsed, recognizing familiar sadness, and I crossed the kitchen at least twice more before my mouth took off and before I could think.

"Bella, I need–"

"Edward, why are–" we said at once.

I winced and stopped in front of the sink so that I could stare through the window at her house. In the back yard, Garrett was racing in circles, jumping and barking, chasing something I couldn't see.

"You go first." I used the counter to steady myself.

"Why are you calling?"

I swallowed, even though my mouth was as dry as the desert, and without conscious thought or warning, I blurted the one thing I told myself I'd ease into. "Can I see you?"

There were two heartbeats of tense silence, so uncomfortable and loud that I almost hung up the phone. Heat climbed my neck even though there was no one there to see. But I didn't care that I probably sounded desperate. I was beyond that. I just… wanted her, any way she'd let me have her.

"Why?" She was so quiet, so terribly quiet.

Taking a deep breath, thanking God and every other deity that she hadn't said no – yet – I swallowed again and said, "I need to say some things to you that I can't over the phone."

I heard something in the background, some muffled sound that I couldn't quite make out.

"I know you're angry with me," I rushed, speeding through my spiel before she had the chance to interrupt me and tell me go fuck myself like I deserved. "You probably hate me. I know that. And fuck, I don't blame you at all." I gulped a lungful of air and went back to pacing the room. "But please. _Please, _Bella_._ Just… just a few minutes. I won't take too much of your time. I swear it. And afterward I won't bother you again if that's what you want." By the end, I was hoarse and the hand holding the phone shook.

Through the line, there was a sharp intake of air and then what I thought was a whispered, "Okay."

I stopped in very center of the room, stunned. "Okay?"

"I don't hate you, Edward." My heart pounded a hard, disjointed rhythm that I swore was bruising my sternum. "I just… yeah, okay, I'll see you."

My knees wobbled and muscles I didn't know I had locked uncoiled. "Good," I breathed, mostly to myself and still stunned stupid. "That's good."

"When?"

Reeling, not at all prepared for her to say yes – not that easily – I rattled off the only words I could think of. "Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Whenever you want."

"I have another class this afternoon and then I have an appointment at four," she slowly replied. "I could come by later tonight. If that works."

My chest stretched and my eyes watered. "That works." Half-elated and half-petrified, unable to hide the longing that I knew was there, I softly asked, "Do you want dinner? I could fix something. I could do that, you know."

"No, it's okay. I'll grab something on the way in from Port Angeles."

Closing my blurring eyes, not trusting the solidity of my voice, I nodded as though she could see me. I should have known better than to go so far.

"I'll be there around seven. Okay?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "That's… that's more than okay."

There was another long pause, still filled with thick, nerve-wracking tension, but at least it was a little more bearable now.

"Bella?"

"Yeah?" She sounded so very tired. I could almost see her head resting in her hand.

"Thank you. I'll see you tonight."

Minutes after we'd hung up, I found myself slumped against the counter, more tired than I'd been just a handful of minutes ago. All of those internal voices swirled inside my head, repeating that same old litany that I had no clue what I was doing here and that I should have just left her alone. But at the same time, part of me was vibrating in the same kind of nervous agitation that had always come just before taking the plunge off the cliffs at La Push. There was a twinge of exhilaration hiding beneath the exhaustion.

"How'd it go?"

My head swiveled just as my brother walked through the door. His hair was wet from the shower, but I wondered how long he'd really been out.

"How'd you know I called?"

He shrugged and ambled toward the refrigerator. "You're not frowning like you were before. Food?"

I shook my head, knowing that anything I attempted to eat would either come up or sit there like a brick.

"Well?" he asked again, grabbing a Coke and a bowl of some kind of multi-colored pasta that Rosalie had brought over.

"I don't know." I sighed, thumbing the length of the phone still in my hand. "She said she'd stop by."

"Well, it's better than hanging up." He shrugged again and piled a plate to put in the microwave.

"Wow, thanks." Palming the back of my neck, more seriously, I added, "She sounded tired."

When Emmett turned, he offered only half a smile. "What'd you expect?"

"I just–"

"Don't start. She's coming over. You're going to tell her what a fucking moron you were. You're going to tell her that you're going to start therapy again. She's going to forgive you. Voila!" He clapped his hands. "Everyone lives happily ever after."

I barked something resembling a laugh, but it came out brittle and harsh. "It's not that simple, Emmett, and you know it. Between you and me, I'd kill for a drink right now, but it's not just the alcohol that's the problem. You have no idea how fucked up I really am… I just… shit, I don't know if I _can_ be fixed."

"I have an idea, Edward. Maybe more than you think." His voice lowered, and all the teasing left. "But that doesn't stop me from hoping anyway."

My eyes dropped to the floor. "Yeah, I guess."

"Are you sure you're okay with me going home tonight? I can stay longer if you need me to. What if… what if your talk with Bella doesn't go like you want?"

Not daring to look up, I said, "I'm sure. You've been here long enough. Even if she doesn't want anything to do with me, I have a dozen names of people… I thought… if nothing else, I thought maybe she might know which one would be better… you know, for me."

The microwave pinged just as he asked, "You're really going to do this?"

"Yeah."

"And you'll call me tomorrow?"

With a small smile, I nodded. "Yeah, I'll call."

"If you don't, I'll just come back over. I might not be nice this time."

When I looked up, my brother was staring at me with an expression I couldn't place. His lips were mashed together and his forehead was tightly drawn, as if he were trying his damnedest to hide something he didn't want me to see.

"Fair enough."

I watched him nod once in acceptance before he shoveled a forkful of pasta in his mouth.

"Emmett?"

His brows shot up.

"Thanks. You're… you're a good brother." I squeezed the back of my neck, embarrassed and ill at ease, but wanting him to know that I got it, that I _did_ see. "I'm sorry I haven't been much of one these last few years."

**~.~.~**

By fifteen until seven, I was a mess, a veritable basket case, inside and out.

Over the last few hours, since the moment Emmett threw his overnight bag back into the trunk of his car and drove away, I'd done anything and everything I could possibly think of to bide the time. I'd showered. I'd shaved. I'd pushed all the empty boxes and bags from the countertops into the trash. I'd even washed a load of laundry once I realized that I hadn't done any at all over these last few weeks.

But none of it – not a single attempt at distraction – had done a thing to assuage the nerves that kept me on my feet and kept my eyes glued to the window, searching for headlights in the dark. Over and over, so many times I'd lost count, I repeated all the things that I wanted to say, and at least half a dozen times, I glanced at the list on the table.

The minutes ticked by like hours, and with each one, my fists balled tighter, and I fought back the urge to jump in my car and run to the little brown store just inside Forks city limits.

At seven on the money, unwilling to take any more of the stifling walls around me, I bolted to the porch and stood at the very edge. Waiting, staring out into the unseeing blackness, I listened to the soft patter of rain hitting the driveway, and like some kind of delusional, desperate man, I chanted that Bella hadn't forgotten, that she hadn't changed her mind, and that everything was fine.

By the time my watch said seven fifteen, however, a kind of panic that I'd never known to exist – a sinking, clawing fear of the unknown – bloomed and sent my blood racing. My whole body quivered from it, and I could hear the whine of it in my ears. The pressure behind my eye sockets made my head pound, and it only got worse. Seeing only the darkness all around, I barely noticed my breath, coming out in quick, shallow, pale gray puffs of steam.

As I watched the third pair of headlights in less than twenty minutes speed down the road and past the driveway, I told myself again that she was just running behind, that she'd be here soon. But deep down… deep down, I knew. This wasn't like her at all. She'd have called, I argued, especially on a night like tonight. She'd have somehow let me know.

I called her at seven twenty.

And again at seven thirty.

And two more times by seven forty.

Not once did Bella pick up the phone. Instead, after ringing and ringing and ringing, I was sent to voicemail, and each time I heard the tinny start of her voice, saying, "I'm not available right now. Please leave a message," I flinched and wanted to throw the phone. By the last call, the message I left was borderline hysterical.

Warranted or not, my fear was a living, breathing, sentient thing that made every single one of my worst memories flare to life in vivid, three-dimensional Technicolor.

At seven forty-five, unable to stand it anymore, I peeled out of the driveway, kicking up a spray of muddy water behind me, and headed the only direction that made any sense. I wasn't sure where to go other than to follow the path she'd have traveled from Port Angeles. She liked the smaller roads, the ones that were curvy and dark and with fewer people – the ones that always seemed to get washed out by the heavy rains.

And it _was_ raining, too, much harder than I'd believed when I'd stood out on my front porch waiting. Water pelted the roof of the car, drowning out all other sounds, and even with the wipers on high, ticking at a lightning fast _swish-swish-swish_, the path in front of my headlights was little more than a dark gray blur. Only a handful of other cars were out tonight, and each one that I met crawled past, well below the posted speed limit.

I called her again and again and again, jamming my thumb down on the send button every few seconds, but only voicemail answered me.

"No, no, no," I whispered, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles popped. "Just answer the fucking phone!"

I didn't know how far or how long I drove, maybe five, maybe thirty miles, but each and every one of them was a lifetime of torture, as my mind unwittingly traveled back to another night, so similar – so fucking similar – to tonight. I could taste the blood sliding down my throat, and the crushing pressure on my chest and ribs felt so real that I could hardly breathe.

"Please, Bella," I whined, as I took a tight curve fast enough that the backend fishtailed and slid on some washed out gravel.

Reflecting in the headlights, a sign with blinking orange lights said there were more curves ahead. In the mouth of the first one, a thin layer of mud and debris covered half the road, erasing the twin yellow lines, and as I banked around the second, a shallow, maybe inch-deep stream of rust-tinged water flowed from one side to the other, carrying with it more dirt and rocks that made my tires shimmy and slide.

So focused on the road itself and keeping my car from spinning, I barely caught the flash of lights from the right hand shoulder.

Immediately, without thinking, cursing and gritting my teeth, I slammed on the brakes. The car instantly spun sideways and skidded just past two beams of pale yellow light, but before it'd even stopped, I threw it in reverse, not caring about the shuddering protest of the transmission.

As soon as I backed up, I saw it.

The mangled, crumpled nose of an old, rusty Chevrolet truck.

"Oh, God!" The air left my lungs in a loud rush. Panicking, eyes glued to the truck, my fingers scrabbled for the door handle, jerking and pulling against the lock. When the lever finally lifted, I kicked it open and stumbled out.

"Bella!" I ran across the dark road as fast as I could, oblivious to the rain smacking me in the face, oblivious to the cold, oblivious to everything except for the woman in that truck.

Who I could see was still in the cab by the shine of my headlights.

But who wasn't moving and wasn't answering.

It took me too long to get to her door. How she'd managed it, I didn't know, but she'd spun out perpendicular to the road and somehow wedged the vehicle tail-down on a steep incline. The ground all around was wet and soggy, and I sunk almost to my ankles with every step. Thick brush scratched at my skin and pulled on my shirt, but I didn't feel a thing. None of it mattered.

Once I finally found her door handle, almost level with my face from the angle in the ditch, I nearly tore the thing off the hinges.

"Bella, please," I chanted, pulling myself up to stand on the running board. Inside the cab, glass from the shattered windshield was everywhere, and the steering wheel was cracked in two from the force of some kind of impact.

Bella's head lolled to the side, and even in the darkness of the cab, I could see the thick lines of blood running down her temple and dribbling from her mouth. The front of her light-colored shirt was covered in it. I _smelled_ it even – the copper and salt, mixed with the rain and the dead, decaying leaves – and bile instantly surged up my esophagus.

Because everything – every fucking thing – about this, I knew. I knew the ending to this story already. I'd lived it once and I couldn't handle living it again.

Coughing and swallowing back the acid, I screamed at myself, _Not now. For fuck's sake, not now! _

"Bella?" I asked again, frantically brushing matted strands of hair out of her eyes. Ripping away the bottom of my shirt, I pressed the soaked material to her forehead, hoping to stem some of the blood flow. "Can you hear me? Please, baby, please answer me. Bella?"

As I unbuckled her seatbelt, I kept saying her name, begging her to answer to me back.

"Ed–" she finally mumbled. I wanted to weep in relief, but there was so much liquid in her lungs that my name died in an ugly gurgle, and the blood on her lips bubbled. When I took her wrist, her skin was ice cold and the thump of her pulse was too slow and too faint.

"Oh God, oh God," I cried, as I tried to gently position her so that I could lift her out. "Bella, I need to move you." My voice broke. "I need to get you out of here, okay? Can you hang on for me? Please? Baby, I'm going to take you to the hospital. Right now, okay?"

Only God knew what she'd broken in the crash and only God knew what moving her would do. But as far out as we were and judging by everything I saw and heard, I didn't think she'd make it long enough to wait for the ambulance to get her out of here the right way.

Getting down out of the truck was going to be a nightmare, but I didn't have a choice, and I could only pray that my knees wouldn't buckle when I stepped that far down carrying her with me. As carefully as I could manage, I draped her left arm over my shoulders, wincing when she winced, propped her head against my chest, and slid my forearms beneath her knees and behind her back. When I gave a test lift, straining at the angle, she made an awful, gurgling sound that turned my blood cold.

"I know. I know it hurts," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "But I need to get you out before you bleed to death."

With every bit of strength I had in me, trying my damnedest to not jostle her any more than I had to, I picked her up off the seat again, only this time I held her up and drew her closer so that I could balance us both on the running board.

The step down was a solid two and a half feet, and the ground below was dark, mushy, and covered with slippery leaves. I was absolutely terrified of dropping her. But as I locked my arms around her as tightly as I thought she could take and shakily lowered my right leg, searching for the ground, God, or someone, stepped in and helped me find something solid enough to take our weight. My knee popped and my thigh muscle protested, but I didn't fall. We landed with a muffled crunch of twigs and leaves and a soft strangled cry in the crook of my neck.

"Shh, it's okay. It's okay," I repeated, wasting no time and walking as quickly as I dared up the short embankment. My shoes slid in the mud but kept us upright, and once I hit the road, I ran back to the passenger door.

I wasn't sure how I managed to get the door open with her in my arms, nor was I sure how I laid the seat back and lowered her into it. But in less than a minute after carrying her out of that godforsaken ditch, I slammed my door and turned the light on to take a quick stock of her injuries.

Her face was a bruised, bloody mess, with most of the blood from the deep cut at her hairline and the stream seeping from the corner of her mouth. As if she'd thrown up her arms at the last minute, there were other cuts and gashes all up and down the insides of her forearms, as well, but those were the least of my worries. Because when I lifted her rain-soaked shirt, there was a dark, fist-sized, plum-black splotch staining her abdomen.

"Fuck," I muttered, biting my tongue and swallowing back another round of nausea.

I gently touched her freezing skin. The moment I made contact, with a raspy moan of pain, her head thrashed from left to right, and her eyelids fluttered but refused to open.

"Please, Bella," I begged, as I flipped the heat on full blast and then threw the car in drive. "Just a little longer, okay? Don't you leave me. Don't you dare leave me."

The trip to the hospital was the longest journey of my life. There was rain and curves and mud on the road, but none of it registered. In some kind of shell-shocked autopilot, my wrists flicked the wheel to make all the right adjustments and my feet somehow maneuvered the pedals. But there wasn't a single light that I stopped for, and regardless of the conditions, I broke every speed limit on the Olympic Peninsula.

All the words I'd planned to say to her were nothing. All my good intentions were nothing. Absolutely nothing. None of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was the broken woman laying on the seat beside me – the woman I loved more than anything else on earth, who was more than likely dying.

**~.~.~**

"What the fuck do you mean I can't see her!" I screamed.

"Mr. Cullen, I'm sorry," a soft, soothing voice answered. When I looked to my left, a dark haired woman about my age and dressed in all white looked at me with undisguised pity. "Please calm down, sir."

"How the fuck do you think that's going to happen?" I crossed the room with a single angry stride and stood directly in front of her. "Just let me in to see her! Just for a minute!"

The dark-haired nurse put her hand on my still damp shoulder, not at all taken aback when I shrugged it off. "We can't let you in, sir. She's in ICU. It's policy. You're not family." She motioned for me to take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall. "You can't yell in here like this. I know you're upset. Ms. Swan clearly means a lot to you. I'm so sorry, but there's nothing I can do. We're trying to contact her sister." She smiled apologetically. "You can wait if you'd like."

"_Please_, tell me what's wrong with her," I whispered, dropping down to the edge of the nearest chair. "Just tell me she's going to be okay. She has to be." I looked up at the woman through watery eyes. "She has to be. I can't stand it. Don't you understand?"

"Sir, again, I'm sorry. It's policy. I can't divulge anything about a patient." She took a deep breath and frowned at me. "Would you like a change of clothes? I can get you that."

Not understanding, I looked down at my chest and mindlessly stared at the bloodstains covering my white shirt and jeans. Everything I had on was filthy, caked and tacky from the rain and mud. "I don't care."

"I'll get you something to wear. And a cup of coffee."

As soon as the nurse left the room, I collapsed as though my bones just couldn't take the weight any more. The sob I'd been holding in for what felt like hours rose to the surface, making my whole body shake, and my fingers gripped my hair to keep my head still.

Every part of me ached from the strain and from the residual cold. But the soreness of my muscles had absolutely nothing on the pain in the center of my chest or the sickness of my gut. It felt as though I were actually dying here in this waiting room. Watching the nameless, flickering images on the television screen and listening to the dull buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights, I drowned in the adrenaline crash.

And in the horrific realization that my life was on _repeat_.

For the second time in less than half a decade, because of _me_ – if I hadn't called her, if I hadn't begged to see her, if I'd just left her alone – the woman who meant most to me was being ripped away. Only this time, it was far worse. This time I was conscious for it all, and I didn't think I would survive it. I didn't have it in me.

Desperate, in some kind of instinctive reflexive action, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. When the screen lit up, I blindly scrolled until I found the name, and with trembling, fumbling hands, I dialed the one number that offered me any hope of help.

It rang once, twice, a third time, and then a sure, quiet voice came on the line.

"Edward?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Dad, please…" I choked and coughed back another sob. "Please, _help me_."

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:** I've been asked about the banner for this fic many times since I started posting, but until now I've not been able to really answer without giving away too much. The banner (there's a link to all my banners on my profile page) depicts the scene above where Edward pulls Bella out of her crashed truck and carries her to his car.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Hemorrhage_, by Fuel.


	47. I Will Fight Your Fight

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

**Scooterstale and BilliCullen are lovely ladies. They make this all better. Thank you, ladies. **

* * *

_**I Will Fight Your Fight**_

* * *

At some point, waiting for the assurance that wouldn't come and alone with only my thoughts and worst fears, I folded in on myself, physically _and_ mentally.

Unable to hold myself upright any longer, my elbows dug into the tops of my knees, and I buried my face deep in my hands, pushing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets in some vain attempt to distract myself from the drowning anguish that I was sure was about to kill me. Trying not to fall apart, my teeth snapped together, biting back the sobs that I feared once started, wouldn't ever stop. Every breath I took was ragged, coming out in sharp, shallow pants that were nowhere close to delivering the oxygen I needed, and every time my eyes sluggishly looked up at the empty room, the pictures on the wall tilted and spun.

Sitting here in this small room, surrounded by sterile white walls and the pungent scents of rubbing alcohol, cleaners, and death, all I could think of was how pale Bella had been when the paramedics took her from my car. How colorless her lips had been. How when her shirt had ridden up as they lifted her, that ugly purple-black splotch on her abdomen had seemed so much bigger than it had been before. How she was bleeding. And broken. And how my insides ripped in two when she'd tried to squeeze my hand but couldn't.

I was losing her. I knew it, even though the doctors and nurses hadn't said a word. I just… _knew_. She was going to die on me.

Just like before.

Powerless over my own thoughts, I couldn't stop the rush of images. New ones crashed into the old, as the past and the present – the sights, the sounds, the smells – all blurred together until my head was one horrific waking nightmare that I couldn't escape. I could only replay it over and over and over.

I was too late. I'd waited too long to leave. I hadn't gotten her out in time.

_My fault. _

I should have never called her, never asked to see her. I should have known that it was raining too hard and that the roads were a mess. I should have left her alone…

My mouth was suddenly too wet, and I couldn't seem to get any air. The room flashed from hot to cold, and in my ears, the beeps of nearby hospital machines bled together into a single, high-pitched wail.

"Please, God," I breathed, gulping and fisting my hair. "Not her, too. Not her. God, not her."

Time in my waiting room was a non-existent thing. Days seemed to pass even though it was probably only hours. Incapable of leaving, of really even moving, I just sat there, shaking, and stared at the floor, scared senseless and dying a little more every time someone passed by the door.

At some point, somewhere behind me, there was the click of a door and the soft pad of foam-bottomed shoes. But I didn't care enough to even look up. It was probably just the nurse again, bringing me shit I didn't want and telling me how sorry she was.

"I don't want anything, okay?" I muttered through chattering teeth. "If you're not going to tell me how she is, I don't give a fuck."

She didn't answer.

"Son?"

My breath left in a rush and my eyes screwed shut at the sound of my father's voice. "Dad?"

He walked slowly toward me. When I opened my eyes again, I could see the rain-stained suede toes of his oxfords. "Son?" he asked again, quieter. "Have you been drinking?"

That knife wound in my chest twisted, so painful that I doubled over and hugged my arms around my torso, as if that action alone could keep me together. "God, no. _No_."

He sat down beside me. "Edward, are you okay?"

"No," I whispered, shaking my head as the dam split wide. "No." I shook my head again, harder, losing what little control over myself that I had left. "Bella's in there and they won't… No, I'm not okay." I breathed in through my nose and swallowed around the lump at the base of my throat. But I couldn't be still. In nervous agitation, my knees jumped up and down and my fists flexed, curling together until my nails bit into the meat of my palms. "I'm not fine," I panted, uselessly swiping away the tears wouldn't stop falling. "I'm not… I'm not fine at all."

A hand reached out and rested on my shoulder before sliding down to the center of my back. It was warm, a single point of warmth when all I felt was cold. It just made me cry harder.

"It's my fault," I blurted. As if in acknowledgement, the wound in my chest gaped wide, and all I could do was rock back and forth. Everything hit me all over again – the crash, _both crashes_, Maria, Bella, the years of misery, me screaming into the dark. "I can't… Jesus, not again. I can't stand it." I gasped for air that wouldn't come. The room and everything in it faded to dull background noise, as I went on and on, only half aware of what I was saying. "Oh, God. I'm sorry… Just like Maria. Oh, God, I killed her, too. I know it. Just like Maria… I killed her, too. She's going to leave me..." I flinched and shook with every word.

Regardless of who was watching, who could see, who could hear, irrelevant of ego or care or any of the battle lines that had been drawn years ago, I broke.

Completely.

There in the middle of the hospital waiting room with my father's hand resting on my back, I shattered into a million tiny pieces, blubbering the nonsensical stream of consciousness that I'd been silently chanting for nearly five years.

"Please don't let her die," I sobbed. "I can't lose her."

My father's arm, strong and warm, wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me against his chest. Unthinking, adrift and entirely lost, I let him, and when he began stroking my hair like he would a small child, I didn't pull away. Instead, I fell into him, not even trying to hold myself up any more.

"Oh, _my boy_," he whispered, holding me tighter. "It's not your fault. God, it's not your fault."

"You were right," I stuttered, whipping my head back and forth. "You were always right. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking _sorry_." I didn't know what I was saying, what I was asking for. Now, then, both, I wasn't sure. I just knew that if Bella didn't live, I'd never recover.

"No. No, Edward, it's not… Christ, it was an accident. Then and now." His voice broke and his fingers dug into the tops of my arms. Softer, muffled against the top of my head, he choked, "God forgive me… what have I done to you?"

**~.~.~**

Barely able to stand, I dragged the chair from the corner of the room to the edge of her hospital bed.

How my father had finagled me getting in, I didn't know. I just knew that – somehow – five minutes after I'd finally pulled away, drained and not too far from catatonic, wiping the last signs of wetness from my face, he'd calmly walked up to the front desk and had them page Bella's attending physician.

Now, twenty minutes after that, with a quiet word about going to discuss Bella's condition with her doctor, he gave me a tight-lipped smile, tossed me a pair of bright blue scrubs, and closed the door behind him.

Concussion, I thought, as I quickly stripped out of my filthy clothes and went into the attached bathroom to wash my face. When I checked the mirror over the sink, I barely recognized myself. Ashen and drawn, with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and hair sticking out everywhere, I looked like I hadn't slept for days.

Multiple broken ribs, I went on, reciting her injuries to heart.

Punctured lung.

Lacerated liver and internal bleeding.

Not to mention more than a dozen small cuts and abrasions littering her face and arms.

Tugging on the clean shirt and pants, not even bothering with socks or shoes, I walked back to Bella's bed. I stood there for a long moment, just watching, cataloguing all the tiny, regular movements that said she was still alive. Seeing her there, with her chest slowly rising and falling beneath the hospital sheet, I finally – _finally_ – let out the breath of air that I felt like I'd been holding forever.

Because she _would_ live. And according to my father, would likely recover completely.

"_You did the right thing, son. You probably saved Bella's life. She'd have bled to death had you not found her and pulled her out. I'm proud of you," _he'd said before he'd given us our privacy.

I didn't know how to reconcile that with everything else spinning in the back of my head. Hell, I didn't know how to deal with _any_ of the things my father had said in that waiting room. It had all run counter to everything I knew and thought, everything he'd said to me himself so many years ago. None of it had made any sense, and right now, as strung out as I was, I could only file it all away for later. Maybe after she woke up. Maybe I'd think of it then. Maybe I'd talk to him.

With no grace whatsoever, I fell into the chair but then scooted forward so that I could lay my head on the mattress beside her. Exhausted – tired in every possible way – and relieved, but utterly raw, I timidly reached for Bella's hand, lightly brushing the back of it with the tips of my fingers. She didn't move at all, didn't even register my presence.

But just that was enough – touching her was enough to ease the raging fear that'd consumed me, enough to at least temporarily banish all else away.

For what could have been hours, unmoving and clutching her hand, I listened to the slow, steady ping of her heart monitor, counting each and every beat – each one a piece of evidence that I'd been granted some measure of mercy after all. Not trusting my voice to speak, with my head by her hip, I just stared up her pale, sleeping face until I saw nothing but black.

I dreamed that I felt her fingers thread through my hair.

**~.~.~**

The quiet creak of a door jerked me awake.

Startled, I sat up immediately and looked around, disoriented and surprised by the pale yellow cast of the room. It'd been dim and gray-violet when I'd been allowed in, but now, when I looked to the right, thin streams of sunlight poured through the blinds, bright enough that it had to be at least mid-morning.

My eyes then shot to Bella.

Still asleep, the bruises I could see had darkened and the tiny cuts from the imploding windshield – ones too small to stitch – had turned into angry, red welts overnight, making her look even worse than she had before. But even I could see that the sharp lines of unconscious pain were now absent. Pumped full of painkillers, her forehead had smoothed, flattening that furrow between her brows. The tension around her eyes had relaxed, too, and her mouth was soft and slack. Without thinking, the noise that had woken me momentarily forgotten, I reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

For the first time in maybe years, I smiled.

A throat somewhere behind me cleared, interrupting and dragging me back to the present. Reluctantly, still holding onto Bella's hand, I turned in my chair, fully expecting the dark-haired nurse from last night, or another nurse, or Bella's doctor, or maybe even my father.

Instead, someone new altogether greeted me.

A tall, slender woman with dark brown hair and tortoise shell glasses stood just inside the doorway. A quick assessment said that she was maybe somewhere in her early forties, and while an official-looking badge dangled from her neck, I could tell from the lack of scrubs or white coat, she didn't work here. If anything, judging by the stark, all-black suit and heels, she reminded me more of a lawyer or maybe even one of my own clients.

But her face was… _kind_. With soft eyes and an even softer smile, there wasn't really another way to put it. And from the way she calmly regarded the scene in front of her, she didn't seem surprised in the least that I was here.

"You must be Edward," she said, slowly walking toward the bed. Her heels clicked loudly against the tile floor.

Not understanding at all how she knew me, I simply nodded and stood up. "I am."

Extending her hand, her smile widened. "I'm Angela."

My forehead crumpled in confusion, the name somehow familiar but not known.

"Angela Cheney," she repeated, adding on her last name. "I'm–"

"Bella's psychologist." Instantly ill at ease, my whole body woke up, but I took her hand and shook it anyway because I didn't know what else to do.

"Close enough." She flashed me a row of white teeth and squeezed my hand before letting go. "She's also someone I call a friend. My name's listed in her medical records, so her physician called me first thing this morning."

Unsure of what to say, I scrubbed my face, ignoring the rasp of day-old stubble. My hands were sore, especially around my knuckles and joints, from what, I couldn't exactly recall, but then again, when I actually took note, after last night, there wasn't an inch on me that wasn't sore in some way.

Yet at the same time, however, as I was assessing my physical shape, when I really examined myself in _every_ way, when I looked and really listened for the descent that I knew would inevitably come, in a split second of clarity, I realized that it was _there_ that something had changed.

Something fundamental – some integral part of me – had shifted between the time I'd spun my tires out of my driveway last night and now. I didn't know what it was exactly, or how, or why, only that it had. But as I'd watched Bella sleep through the night, as I'd laid my head beside her, seeing that I hadn't lost her after all, something in me, like some odd pieces of a puzzle that had been floating around, untethered and unmatched, locked into place, leaving me with something new and warm buried beneath the aching muscles and bruised emotional space. It was muted, of course, and hard to find, but strangely, if I had to describe this new sensation, I could only say that some part of me finally felt _alive_.

We were quiet for a while, both of us looking at the woman asleep on the bed and lost in thought. In all honesty, I had no clue how much time passed by – five minutes, ten, I wasn't sure. When I glanced up again, however, Dr. Cheney's chin was tilted in study, and instead of Bella, she was looking at me.

"She's going to be fine," she suddenly said.

Not prepared for that comment at all, I swallowed and nodded, willing it to be true. "That's what her doctor says… and my father."

"How are you?" This question was even softer, yet its impact was that of a scream.

I blinked rapidly and my fingers wound themselves into Bella's sheets before I answered with something resembling the truth. "Better than I was last night."

Dr. Cheney shifted back toward Bella, granting me some small amount of reprieve. "I talked to Bella's doctor." She stopped for a second, as if measuring her words, and then continued. "She's fortunate that you found her when you did."

I said nothing at all, but my grip on Bella's sheets tightened. Half of me wanted to argue, to admit my own culpability, but my father's voice chimed in, not the one from years ago, but from last night.

"_She would have been on that road anyway. It's not your fault. It was an accident, son. For God's sake, it was an accident! Just like before. Just like with Maria. It's not your fault."_

"You saved her, Edward," Dr. Cheney said, glancing back to me with a small smile.

I shook my head a little too fast and whispered, "Not really."

She shrugged. "You did in my book."

When I looked over, I was instantly unnerved by the intensity in the pale blue eyes behind those tortoise shell frames. "That must have been very difficult for you," she quietly added. It wasn't a question.

"Doesn't matter." It was my turn to shrug. Because it didn't matter at all. Without even thinking, without question, I knew that I'd gladly go through it all again if it meant not facing the far worse alternative.

"But still," she countered. "I'm sure last night was hard. It would have been for anyone." I wasn't sure how much, or even if, Bella had told her therapist about me, or about my particular demons, but it was me who silently tacked on, _but especially for you, _at the end of her statement_._

A thick knot formed in my throat, making it hard to swallow or even breathe as I recalled the outright misery and the way I'd literally fallen apart in my father's arms. Quietly, barely above a whisper and speaking mostly to myself, I said, "The waiting… that was hard. Not knowing. That was… _awful_."

"I'm sure."

It looked as though she wanted to say something more, but then thought better of it. Instead, she flashed me another smile and made a show of checking her watch. "Look, I hate to but I need to run. I just wanted to stop by." She paused before reaching over to gently clasp Bella's hand. "But I'll be back later, okay? Maybe when she wakes up. Will you tell her I stopped by if she wakes up sooner?"

Confused, I just stood there.

"And Edward?" Waiting until I met her gaze, again intense in a way that I couldn't quite understand, Dr. Cheney added, "If you need anything, anything at all, please… _please_, let me know. I know that Bella cares a great deal about you… and others, too... You don't have to manage all this by yourself. There are people who would be willing to help you if you needed it."

What little air remained in my lungs vanished and my stomach fluttered. My skin crawled in a fit of nerves and my hands trembled, begging for the usual but now forsaken cure. But that _something_ of a sensation from before – that warmth and that sense of being alive – made my mouth run away from me just as she turned to leave.

"Dr. Cheney?" My voice was hoarse.

She turned back and raised her eyebrows in question.

"I was– I…" I started then stopped, not knowing what I wanted to say, only that I wanted to say _something_, that I didn't want her to leave just yet. When I closed my eyes, trying to regain some semblance of calm, a picture of the list written out on my table, waiting for me to act, came unbidden. "What–" I started again, fumbling over my words, testing them as I went. "What if I… what if I wanted to talk to someone?"

"Someone?"

"Someone…" My eyes screwed tighter shut, and the rest came out in a jumbled rush. "Maybe someone who does what you do."

Heels clicking, she walked back toward me. Softly and so calmly, she asked, "What would you like to talk about?"

I took a deep, steadying breath. "About…" I swallowed and then leaned back against Bella's mattress for the support my frame couldn't handle on its own. "About _a lot_ of things."

She waited a moment before finally answering, but when she did, my shoulders instantly fell. "I'm probably not the right person for you, because I work with Bella."

"It's fine," I breathed, my hopes plummeting, and in the process making me realize that I did indeed have hopes after all.

"But my husband, Ben," she quickly returned, reaching out to touch my forearm to pull me back into the present. "He would be more than happy to speak with you. Any time you'd like."

I looked at her then, blinking, as those hopes swelled again, nearly choking me. "Does he– is he–"

"We're in the same office. We work with similar people."

I thought back to all the names and specialties that I couldn't even pronounce, not knowing where to begin or what I was asking. "Does he have… I don't know… some kind of specialty or something? Would he be… would he know how to deal with someone like me?"

I'd believed that I'd cried all that I was capable of last night, yet as I openly acknowledged just how fucked up I truly was to this stranger and admitted that I didn't want to be like that anymore, my eyes still pricked and swam, this time from an emotion that I couldn't name.

Dr. Cheney's smiled waned then, still there but now sympathetic and kind enough that it made me want to turn away. "We both work with many people for many reasons," she answered, squeezing my hand as if to reassure me. "But yes, he does." Her blue eyes pierced into me as surely as any blade. "His areas of focus are substance abuse…and grief."

I looked away then and wiped my eyes. "That–" I stammered, trying to hide the quiver in my lower lip. "That would work, I think…" I nodded too fast and forced myself to take a breath. "When?"

"When can you come in, you mean?" she asked.

"Yeah. When can I… when can I make an appointment?"

"Whenever you want. Ben always makes time."

Clearing my throat, I focused on the sure and steady beat of Bella's heart monitor, letting it ground me in the present and in this particular moment. "What's today?"

"Saturday."

For a silent minute, I gazed all around the room, taking in everything – the pale light streaming in, Bella's sleeping body and bruised face, the busy sounds of the hospital coming in through the open door – remembering all that had gotten me here – to this very moment. And then I looked deep inside myself.

Here was what I'd said I'd do. Here was my chance.

"Could I come Monday?" I whispered.

.

.

.

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _I Won't Let Go_, by Rascal Flatts. [If you've never heard this song and its lyrics, look it up on youtube. The whole song is really beautiful and very, _very_ appropriate to this chapter.]


	48. You Gotta Love Yourself

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

I've said this 47 other times, but it's nonetheless true. I've very lucky to have** BilliCullen **for a pre-reader and** Scooterstale **as editor.** Thank you, **ladies.

* * *

_**You Gotta Love Yourself If You Can Ever Love Me**_

* * *

"Mr. Cullen?"

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, I halted my pacing and stared at the thin, blonde nurse exiting Bella's room.

"You can go back in now," she quietly said, smiling and motioning toward the door. "She's pretty weak, okay? She probably won't be able to talk too long, and she's going to be sore, so don't be surprised. But she's awake and doing well." When I let out a chestful of stale, spent air, the nurse just gave me another soft smile, this one sympathetic, as though she somehow _knew_ – as though she could tell just how tightly my fists were balled inside of my pockets. "She can have some ice if she feels like it, but nothing else right now. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

My heart thumped a fast, hard rhythm. Unable to formulate any other kind of answer, I bobbed my head too quickly.

After more than thirty-six hours of waiting and two earlier false-starts, when I'd paged the nurses' station this last time, in all honesty, I hadn't held out much hope. No, I had expected to be told to, "Be patient." And I'd expected to return yet again to my strange, solitary and quiet world made of nothing more than four white walls, Bella's bed, and my chair, and where time was counted only by the slow, steady ping of her heart monitor.

Almost in a daze, it took a full minute for me to fumble through and process everything the nurse had said, and it took another to even move. Once my stunned limbs had finally unfrozen and I began to slowly push open the wooden door, however, reality crashed down around me and my stomach erupted in a fit of nerves. A not-so-small part of me was terrified, and with everything left in me, I prayed a hasty, silent prayer that she'd at least not tell me to leave. Not yet anyway.

My eyes instantly found her. That she was now sitting up, leaning back against the raised bed, somehow surprised me, so much so that for a second I could only stare at her from the doorway.

Little had changed over the past two days. And now, bathed in soft violet light from the lamp above her bed, the same angry, red welts littered Bella's arms, and the same white, gauzy bandage covered her forehead. Her hair was still lank, pulled back in a loose, tangled ponytail, and strands of it still fell around her bruised and swollen face. The hollows of her eyes were little more than dark charcoal smudges and her lips were chapped and pale.

But none of that mattered because she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and at the sight of her, all the words I wanted to say disappeared from my tongue. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other.

"Hey," she whispered, as I slowly crossed the room. Her voice was low and ragged, but to me, it sounded like bells chiming.

I stopped next to the bed, and everything in me begged to reach out and touch her – to touch her cheek, her hand, something – so that I'd know this was all real. I settled for gripping the bed rail and smiled an unsure smile before answering with the same. "Hey."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke, and the silence between us was heavy enough that my heart kept pounding against my sternum. Unable to look away, no different from the doorway, I just… stared at her – at the way her chest rose and fell, at the way her hands folded together in her lap, at every single part of her, but most of all at the way she stared back at me. And I wanted her. Unashamedly, with everything, I wanted her, and I didn't care if she knew it.

Her lips finally twitched, breaking our standstill. "I wrecked my truck."

Taken aback by both her statement and the surge of the unnamable emotion that flowed through my veins, so sudden and so strong that it almost sent me to my knees, my shoulders shook and I laughed. It was brittle and weak and on the verge of a cry of relief, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "Yeah," I breathed, as I sat down on the edge of the mattress to keep myself from falling over. "Yeah, you did. Totalled it."

Bella's eyebrows slanted down into an all-too-familiar expression, but then just as quickly, straightened with a tight wince of pain. "I liked that truck."

Without permission, my left hand reached over to gently brush a stray strand of hair away from her face. When she didn't pull away, instead closing her eyes as though she actually wanted the contact, too, I let my fingers ghost down the side of her face, careful to avoid the bruises. "I'll get you a new one." I swallowed. "One with power steering and antilock brakes. And airbags."

Bella opened her eyes and in a voice as soft as spun silk, all humor gone, she said, "You got me out."

It wasn't a question, and I immediately looked away. At the wall, at the floor, at the white-knuckle grip of my hand around the bedrail, I looked anywhere but at her.

"I remember that," she whispered. "Everything hurt, and I remember not being able to move and being cold, like I was underwater. And I remember thinking that I was late and that you probably thought I was blowing you off. And then I remember hearing you say my name."

I remembered that, too. I remembered _all _the times I'd said her name, as well as all the times I'd yelled it, cried it, and prayed it. And far, far too vividly, I also remembered the sense of utter desolation and despair that came with it – the anger, the mourning, the wild and shaking terror that consumed me the moment I'd found her truck in that ditch.

"That must of have been awful for you," Bella went on, as if she could hear me screaming in my own head. "But thank you. Thank you for coming for me. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

I shook my head, clearing away all the things I didn't want to think about in favor of what was before me, right here, right now, alive and breathing. "It's okay. You're okay," I halfway chanted, as I ran my fingertips down the side of her face one more time. "That's all I care about. That's all that matters."

There were so many things I wanted to say to her, so many things I _needed_ to say, but the quiet that fell between us yet again overwhelmed all else. After a moment, she reached for my hand and began tracing the lines of my palm with her forefinger. Her skin was cool, but everywhere she touched me heated, as though coming to life after weeks – _years_ – of being dead.

"Ed–" she started, hesitant and quiet.

"Please _don't_," I begged through gritted teeth, whipping my head back and forth, not wanting to hear what I knew was coming. "Please don't send me away. Not yet."

Not now.

Not after all this.

Her throat bobbed and her eyes turned to shiny glass, but at the same time, her fingers threaded between mine and squeezed. "You hurt me."

It was a punch to my gut, one that was true and just a fraction of what I deserved. Instantly, my stomach sank and I had to breathe in through my nose. "I know. God, I know." My shoulders slumped, and I fought to keep my voice from cracking. "I'm sorry... so sorry. For _everything."_

"But–"

"No, wait," I interrupted again, uncaring of pride or of the desperation I couldn't hide. "Bella, just… _let me_. Please?"

When I glanced up, ready to drop to my knees and beg if she demanded it, her lip was folded beneath her teeth, but she gave a short nod.

Without thinking, closing my eyes, I pulled our joined hands to my lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I should have listened to you. I should have done what you asked me to do. I should have been… _more_… for you." I took another shallow breath and pressed my cheek to her knuckles. "You shouldn't have had to deal with my shit... I'm sorry for what I said to you that night when you left and for not chasing after you... I'm sorry that I wasn't there… that day. For everything… all the shit I've done to you, but more than anything, for what I didn't do."

I stopped and looked at her then, memorizing every line of her face. "But… if you let me," I fumbled, swallowing around my heart. "If you let me, I'll spend the next sixty years of my life trying to make it up to you. However you'll let me."

She stilled then. "What are you say–"

Our hands dropped to my lap and I stared at the way our fingers twined. This part was harder. "I was going to tell you the other night... Things are different now…" I cleared my throat to buy a little more time. "Things are _going_ to be different. I've been doing a lot of… thinking – searching, maybe. I'm going to fix some things.

"While you were asleep," I continued, fearing that if I stopped talking for even a second, she would tell me where I could go. "I met Angela. I like her. I get why you see her. I talked to her a little bit, and tomorrow morning… tomorrow, I'm going to start seeing her husband, Ben. I'd planned to do that before… _this_." The last part came out in a rush, and my jaw stung, but I forced myself to look up again, wanting her to believe, wanting her to see that I finally… got it.

"I'm going to fix _me_."

Bella's expression was soft and warm, and liquid lined her lower lids, but her voice hitched when she spoke. "Edward, you can't do this for me–"

"I know." I nodded a little too hard. "I get it now. I do. Yes, I am doing this _because_ of you – because honestly, if you'd never walked into my life, I'd probably be dead already, or close to it. But I'm not doing it _for_ you."

"What do you mean?"

"Bella, I'm doing it for _me_. Or I'm going to try to at least." I paused, realizing the truth for what it was. "There are… things I want, things that I know I can't have if I don't do something... if I don't learn to deal with all this shit in my head, and if I can't figure out how to… let go of what happened with my sister…"

I didn't hesitate when I added, "Those things I want include you."

She didn't say anything, so I kept going, rambling out all the things I'd thought about saying to her, all the confessions that she was owed. "I know I'm just talking and I'm not dumb enough to think it's going to be easy, but I don't want to drink anymore. I don't want be miserable anymore. I want my family back. I want my life back. I want to be happy again. And God, I want you…

"Some piece of me keeps saying that I should wait, that saying all of this to you is stupid and selfish, and that maybe I'll fail. And maybe the right thing would be for me to do all this and _then_ come to you, begging if I have to. But… I don't want to wait. I don't want to waste any more time. I want to get better with you. And I want to take care of you for once and… I want to love you, if you'll let me."

Bella released my hand, and the mattress beneath me fell away with it. A sharp, aching pant spilled out of my mouth, an acknowledgement of everything bottled up inside, waiting for her judgment. I struggled to keep myself upright.

But then, she slowly reached across the small divide between us and pressed her palm flat against the center of my chest. There was no way she couldn't feel my heart thundering inside. After a second, a hesitant, almost shy smile turned her lips up before she said, so softly that I barely heard, everything I'd ever want to hear.

"I want that, too."

**~.~.~**

I stayed there, sitting as closely as I could, until she fell asleep again. The blonde-haired nurse had been right; Bella was so very weak that it didn't take her long at all. In fact, after only a few more minutes of talking, before my lips even touched hers, her eyes shut and her breathing slowed.

But I didn't mind. I couldn't. Not when I'd been granted mercy after mercy. Not when she was alive and when my life was starting over.

So for a moment, I didn't move at all. Like I'd done for so many hours, I sat there beside her in the softly lit room, holding her hand loosely in mine, and just watched her sleep. The minutes slowly wore on, and with them, the lines of residual pain on her face gradually eased. As though she were dreaming, there was a subtle flutter behind her lids and her lips mumbled soft, indefinable words. Once, I thought I heard something resembling my name.

I had no name for what I felt. Hope, love, relief, fear – it was somehow all of that and none of it at the same time.

At some point, though, my stomach growled, and the rough sound of it almost made me laugh, because in a quick second of self-assessment, I realized that the emptiness of my gut was the first sensation of anything close to _normal_ I'd felt since I'd arrived. It was strange that I couldn't remember the last thing, or even the last time, I'd eaten, but I was suddenly _starving_ in a way I hadn't been in weeks – months even_._

Tired but smiling and more alive than I'd been in years, I reluctantly rose from the bed, stretching muscles that felt as though they hadn't moved in ages, and with a quick kiss to Bella's sleeping cheek, I slipped out of the room to make my way down to the cafeteria on the first floor.

At the far end of the hall, as I meandered past the very last waiting room, I turned my head, looking for the clock on the wall. A flash of pale lavender and cream, however, was what caught my eye and slowed my feet. When I peeked around the corner, I froze.

Stunned, not at all prepared for the sight that greeted me, my mouth didn't seem to want to work, so all I could manage was a loud, blurted, "What are you– you're here."

My mother's head lifted from her book. Her lips parted in a quick second of surprise, but then with a sudden, "Oh, Edward!" that lingered in my ears, she rushed from her chair and over to me. Before I could even blink or speak, her arms flew around my neck and jerked me down. "Son, oh, we're so relieved."

"You're here," I said again, choking and clinging as tightly to my mother as she clung to me. When I closed my eyes and breathed in, the familiar, soothing scent of her perfume filled my lungs, and for a moment, it took me back in time – back before all of this, before any of it – to when we were all whole.

Over her head, I watched the rest of my family stand up and walk over – my father, unshaven, still dressed in the same tweed pants and wrinkled shirt he came in on Friday night, Rosalie, and my brother, who was holding Lilly in his arms and wearing a baseball cap and too few hours of sleep.

I didn't have to ask to know how long they'd been here. The bags of food on the table and the doubled over pillows in the chairs told me everything they didn't.

"Of course, we are," she said, turning into my neck. Wetness hit my skin and slid down to meet the collar of the scrubs I still wore. "Whatever you need."

When my mother released me, they each took a turn. First it was Rosalie, who grabbed me quick and awkward, and then Emmett, who clapped me on the back and pulled me in tight enough that I could barely breathe. "You did good, Edward," he whispered.

My father was last, and at first we only shook hands, as though neither of us were sure how to behave now after all that had come to pass. Heat climbed my face and I nervously palmed the back of my neck as I recalled the way I'd fallen completely apart and how he'd picked me up, here, in this very room. But as I looked into the pair of pale blue, shiny eyes I knew better than any, he coughed and smiled a tight smile that resembled my own. And then he embraced me, too, holding on longer than all the rest.

Still reeling and overwhelmed, we all talked for a few minutes. It was little more than idle chitchat about the weather and about Lilly mostly, almost as though my family somehow understood that I wasn't quite ready to relive anything from Friday night. Then again, I wasn't sure if I would ever want to do that.

"Where were you headed?" my father asked.

I cleared my throat and glanced toward the door. "I was… just going to the cafeteria. Maybe grab something, maybe a sandwich or something, and take it back."

Almost uncertainly, as if he were asking permission or maybe for just support – a kind of trepidation I'd never seen from my father – he looked to my mother and then back to me. "Would you like some company?"

I stilled as my stomach flipped in that age-old ingrained response. But that sense of… exhilaration and of purpose was still coursing through my veins, and for whatever reason, understanding what he was asking, what he was offering, I found myself slowly nodding.

My father and I didn't speak as we walked side by side down the hall. We didn't speak through the line, or even that much while we ate our chicken salad sandwiches the cafeteria still had left over from the lunchtime hours. But unlike before, unlike the past five years, the silence between us wasn't angry or bristling or bitter. It wasn't even that tense. Of course, the awkwardness was still there – that sense of two people who were once close but who were now almost strangers – but like everything else, things were… _different_.

It wasn't until he poured a second cup of coffee that he really started talking. Looking down at the tabletop, wearing what I could only interpret as shame – something so foreign and wrong on him that I almost didn't recognize it at all – my father picked at the Styrofoam lip of his cup and with a quiet exhale said, "I didn't realize." He shook his head and glanced up to me. "I should have... I'm a doctor for God's sake. I've been trained. I know all the signs. I should have seen it."

I said nothing. I didn't know what to say, but the sandwich I'd just eaten felt like a brick.

"Maybe I did. Maybe I did and just didn't want to admit it," he whispered, shaking his head harder.

"It's not your fault, Dad," I heard myself say. But it was true. My issues weren't his fault. Not all and not completely.

"Some of it is."

I shrugged and took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. Underneath the table, my knee bounced. "Most of it isn't."

"I don't know why I said what I did that night." He looked at me then, and I could see unfamiliar moisture brimming, glinting in the white-violet light from the overhead fluorescents. "Edward, I want you to understand something." His throat bobbed and with shaking fingers, he tore a long strip off the top of his cup. "I failed you that night. And every one since.

"We don't blame you for Maria's death. _I_ don't blame you. I _never_ blamed you. What I said… God, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it then. I don't mean it now."

With a long, tired sigh, he shoved his hand through his hair and pulled off his lenses so that he could scrub his face. "I didn't know what to do after she died. You almost did – we almost lost you, too. You're mother was… beside herself." He paused, his forehead folding. "And then you came in that night and there was blood all over you… and I was so angry that you'd be so reckless, that you'd risk… that you were… Jesus. I didn't know how to handle any of it. I was so… out of my depths. I didn't mean it, son. I'm… I'm so sorry.

"And then all those times I fought with you because I didn't think you were trying, because I didn't think you cared, all those things I said and did since then… and I was the one to blame." He shook his head again, slowly, as exhausted as I was.

"No," I said again, softly, drifting back through all the years, through all the fights, through all the angry, hateful words that I'd spat and yelled. "That was all me. I said a lot of things… things I didn't mean, either. I was… yeah, I'm surprised you didn't… disown me or something."

We were quiet again, both of staring down at the table between us, both of us lost in thought, like two mirror images separated by thirty years. In the background, people milled all around and every so often, a voice blared over the intercom.

"I'm going to see a therapist tomorrow." My voice was low, but somehow sure.

My father flinched as if struck, but then after a second, he brushed his hand through his hair again, smoothing it to the right in habit, and nodded. "Good, that's…" he exhaled and met my gaze. "That's so good."

"Yeah," I palmed my now-empty cup. "I hope so."

"I'm proud of you. Whatever you need, we're here. I'm here. I'm… sorry that I wasn't before."

It was so close to what I'd said to Bella myself, so familiar, and as if in recognition, that ghost of a wound in my chest pulsed, bright and painful.

"It's okay. Or it will be, I hope." I breathed in, remembering the heat from Bella's palm bleeding through the cotton of my shirt. "I…I probably need to get back to Bella, okay? Maybe we could… talk more later. I just… I want to be there in case she wakes up. I don't want her to wake up to an empty room."

"Of course, we can. Any time." As we rose from the table, he hesitated, and then smiled. "I'm… Edward, I'm so glad you found her."

I smiled back, a little wider than I had before. "You have it backward. _She_ found _me_."

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Whatever It Takes_, by Lifehouse.


	49. The Walls You Built Within

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

I've very lucky to have** BilliCullen **for a pre-reader and** Scooterstale **as editor.** Thank you, **ladies.

* * *

_**The Walls You Built Within (Come Tumbling Down)**_

* * *

"You're anxious."

I forced my knee to still and looked up.

"Yeah, go ahead and say it, I'm an observant fucker."

There was a split second of silence while I processed exactly what he'd just said, but then my lips twitched and turned up. "You said it, not me."

Across the wide cherry desk, stacked high with disheveled piles of papers and books, Dr. Cheney just shrugged, leaned back in his leather chair, and smirked at me with a kind of familiar arrogance that told me he'd accomplished exactly what he'd set out to do.

After two and a half weeks and five other similar appointments, I still hadn't quite reconciled the man before me now with the serious, balding therapist who had supposedly treated me years ago. While I guessed he was somewhere in his mid-forties, Dr. Cheney – Ben, as he'd told me to call him – honestly didn't look that much older than me and was nothing like what I'd expected. Reminding me entirely too much of Jasper, he was lanky and thin, with blond, floppy hair that he was always pushing out of his eyes, and unlike his wife, he didn't bother with suits. Apparently, jeans and untucked button-ups were office-appropriate.

Despite the ease and casual tone of our interactions, it took me a few moments to speak again. At only a handful of weeks sober this third time around, my mouth still dried out and my skin still crawled every time my thoughts drifted to places I didn't want them to go. And now here, where I was expected to slice myself wide open and deliberately share all of that fucked up shit in my head with another person, a person with letters behind his name, my insides twisted and curled, making me glad I'd skipped breakfast. Never mind all my good intentions, never mind how much I said I wanted – how much I _did_ want – to fix all the broken pieces inside, there was a not-so-small part of me that, like always, clamored for escape when I sat down in this chair. It was that same part that hated the sensation of being watched and judged, because I already knew that I'd come up short.

It was like this every single time I walked through the door – a war between who I was and who I wanted to be.

Unlike my old therapist, Dr. Cheney didn't seem to mind my non-answers. If anything, when I sat back and really paid attention, it was almost as though he expected it. Instead of pressing or pointing out just how much of a quivering mess I was, with a kind of patience I couldn't readily comprehend, he just picked up some small puzzle board made out of golf tees and studied it, quietly waiting until I was ready to start.

Glancing down to my lap, focusing on the tiny crisscross thread pattern of my jeans and ignoring the sheen of sweat that dampened the back of my neck, I counted back from a hundred and silently repeated again and again and _again _that _I_ was the one who chose to be here and that it was all for a reason. When I reached fifty, I cleared my throat and said, "I brought Bella home from the hospital yesterday."

He didn't answer immediately, still waiting, giving me a chance to say more if I wanted. When I didn't, he just asked, "Stressful?"

A rushed, "Yeah," came out before I had a chance to think because stressed was exactly what I felt like right now – strung tight as a piano wire and trying not to snap. Although as soon as the word left my tongue, even through the jittery nerves, I also remembered just how _relieved_ I'd been – how my entire body had literally uncoiled and slumped – when, after waiting for two miserable hours yesterday afternoon, Bella's physician had finally agreed to sign her release and let me put her in my car. Closing my eyes, trying to untangle the mess of various emotions spinning through my head, I fished for a better response. "I mean, no… Not really. Fuck – sort of."

Dr. Cheney's brows lifted as he slowly moved a red golf tee to an empty slot in the board.

"She's at home." When I paused to clear my throat again, buying time, my eyes shifted to my knuckles, which were now white around the armrests. "Right now," I softly added, emphasizing that last part without really meaning to.

"Anyone with her?"

I shook my head a little too quickly and my knee started bobbing again, tells I couldn't stop even though I knew they were ones the man across from me wouldn't miss. "She wouldn't let me call anyone. Said she was fine – that she'd probably just watch TV or take a nap."

Nodding in quiet understanding, Dr. Cheney prompted, "And her being at home alone is…"

"Uncomfortable," I finished, expelling a chestful of stale air, as I folded my hands together to keep from damaging the furniture.

He nodded again. "We can reschedule if you want."

Tempted – too tempted – and already calculating the exact time I would hit my driveway were I to leave right now, I locked my fingers together and took a slow, measured breath. "No," I forced myself to say. "It's okay. I just…"

"It's all right," he said, smiling a tight-lipped smile, as though he knew all about the chaos and craziness in my head, as though it were a living, sentient being sitting beside me. "Edward, there's nothing wrong with being afraid for people we love. Especially after they've had a near-death experience."

Instantly, I flinched away from the purposeful way he said it. For reasons I couldn't hope to understand, he did that sometimes – said certain things and said them in such a way that he knew I'd react. All I knew was that it made my already swarming stomach take a sharp, nauseating nosedive.

"How is she anyway?" Dr. Cheney asked, granting me some measure of reprieve when he looked back down at his board before moving another golf tee.

"Fine. Her doctor said she's doing really well," I managed and then swallowed, picturing the bruises that still lingered on Bella's face and arms. Over the last two weeks, they had faded, turning from angry plum-black to pale, yellow-green, with some of the smaller ones having vanished altogether. The inch-long incisions between her ribs – almost mirror images of my own – would always be there, however, constant, visible reminders of what was nearly lost. I swallowed again. "Things are… healing like they're supposed to. She's still sore though and she's tired."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. The soreness and fatigue are pretty normal. She was in a bad wreck." Almost as if on cue, Dr. Cheney looked back up from his board just in time to see me flinch again. Softer, he asked, "When you said home, which one did you mean?"

"Mine."

"Why not hers?"

Searching for some form of distraction, my fingers found a stray thread and began tightly looping it around my knuckle. "I have a guest room with a walk-in shower on the bottom floor. It was supposed to be for when my mother and father were older... I don't know, it's just… easier for her not to have to go up steps right now. Easier for me, too, I guess." I paused and focused on the string slowly cutting off my circulation. When I unwound it, my whole hand tingled as the blood rushed to the tip of my finger. "I have a few… months' worth of work to try to catch up on."

Naively, I expected Dr. Cheney to pick up on that last admission – the spoken acknowledgement that I'd pretty much fallen apart to the point that I'd no longer been able to do my job at all and had been that way since Christmas – but he didn't. Instead, he chose a worse path, one that dug deep beneath my crawling skin and made my breathing turn shallow.

"You bought that house from your mother and father?"

I wanted to kick myself, or maybe just disappear into the floor. "Yeah, I did." My voice was hollow and distant, even to my own ears.

In my periphery, I watched him frown at the two tees left on his board before replacing them all to start back over. "So what's that like?"

"What do you mean?" I hedged, not wanting to go there at all.

He shrugged. Because this was how he operated – one topic leading to another, then another, and then another, until he'd quietly and carefully delved his way down to what he really wanted me to talk about. "Exactly what it sounds like. What's it like living in the house you grew up in?"

I shrugged back, though if I were being honest with myself, the nonchalant movement of my shoulders was nothing but show, because my muscles felt like tightly wound springs and my heart clapped like thunder against my sternum from just _thinking_ about where this conversation was heading. "It's maybe a little big for what I use it for. But I like it and the location is good – outside of town but still close enough for convenience." When he said nothing, knowing I'd avoided his real question and knowing we'd just sit here until I answered it, quieter, I added, "It's fine some days."

"What about the other days?"

I sighed in some kind of mix of aggravation – at myself, of course – and resignation, and stared out the window to my right. "Sometimes… sometimes it feels like the walls are caving in. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm suffocating." My heart thumped harder and louder, so much so that I swore he could hear it, and my eyes stung. "I just… I remember… I remember… too much shit I don't want to."

Dr. Cheney followed my gaze to the window. "What about your sister's old room?"

Barely above a whisper, I admitted the truth, "I don't really go in there much."

"Your parents never cleared it out?"

Closing my eyes, seeing nothing but those godawful bright pink walls, the frilly pillows, and all the other girlish things that had sat there on her shelves doing nothing but gathering dust and haunting my waking dreams for nearly five years, I slowly shook my head.

Remembering the last time I'd tried to walk through that door, blood raced through my veins, loud and whining, making my head pound, and that previously light sheen of nervous sweat started pouring down my back. God only knew what my face betrayed, but whatever it was, he saw it and gave me a second before continuing in a voice that sounded like what he'd use to soothe a wounded animal.

"It's very normal for families to hold onto their loved one's possessions. Very normal. Some people never even touch the rooms at all." Even though the subject didn't really change, his tone shifted, lightened maybe, and somehow it drew me away from the dark pool that threatened to drag me under. "Describe Maria's room. What's it's like? What color is it?"

Still seeing little more than those same walls, a harsh, bitter laugh spilled out of my mouth. "Awful."

He set aside his board, moving his focus entirely to me, apparently satisfied that I could handle it now, and one brow shot up. "How so?"

I laughed again, another cough with no sign of amusement. "It's pink. Like pepto bismol." I paused to gauge exactly how much I thought I could stomach saying aloud and palmed the back of my neck, wiping away the beads of sweat that soaked my collar. "She made me help her paint it when she was like 13 or something…." When my hand dropped back to my lap, my gaze followed it. "Never changed it either, not even when she was in college…" I stopped again, inhaling through my nose. "It's all flowers and shit. And it's got all these… feather things that burlesque dancers wear around the bedposts, too."

"Sounds… "

"I know, it's terrible." I looked up, trying my damnedest to meet his piercing – _knowing_ – gaze. "A few times… a few times I've tried to go in there. I just… I can smell it."

"What do you smell?"

I blanched and tried to push away the memories that always threatened to take me to my knees, even as I knowingly risked drowning myself by naming them aloud. "I smell blood. And gasoline… Like I'm still in the car," I whispered through gritted teeth. Every part of me said to shut my fucking mouth, but I didn't, and words kept spilling out of it faster than I could follow. "I can hear her screaming and crying for me to get her out. And I feel… _everything_ – the steering wheel against my chest, the pressure, the rain on my face… _everything_. And then I remember after… being in the hospital when my dad came in and… when he told me." I took a deep gulp of air before I started hyperventilating and dry washed my face. "I can't… I can't _not_ remember that shit. I just… I can't stop it sometimes."

We were quiet again, this time for what felt like forever. On the far wall, above a span of jumbled shelves, there was some kind of antique clock – an old thing with gilded corners and fancy numbers – and its steady, constant ticking seemed to echo throughout the room. From beyond the door, almost as though I were underwater, I could hear voices filtering in from the waiting room, but they were too muffled, impossible to discern. The effect, coupled with the warmth of the room and the dim lighting and scents of leather and books, was almost like a sedative.

When my breathing finally slowed, I swallowed around the thick knot at the base of my throat and rubbed my aching eyes, gathering whatever resolve I had, before slowly asking, "Am I supposed to clean it out now?"

"Why?" The seriousness tone was back, and though I knew he was observing and calculating every single sign and tell I was throwing off, right now, at least in this instance, I found that it didn't bother me so much. Maybe I was still too rattled for it to matter.

"It's probably… " I started then hesitated before voicing what felt right but at the same time like blasphemy. "It's… probably not right for me to keep it all like that. It's maybe… unhealthy."

Like so many other times, the answer I expected wasn't the one he gave. "Do whatever helps _you_. Whatever makes _you_ feel better. If cleaning it out gives you some closure, then do it."

"But– "

"It's _your_ house now. Not your parents'. Not your sister's. There's no right or wrong. You can do whatever you want with it. Now, tomorrow, or never change it at all." Dr. Cheney smiled at me a little. "It's just a _house._ You own it, not vice versa."

I didn't know how to respond to that or even how to begin to describe or name the strange blend of disbelief and surprise and relief that so few words, uttered so plainly, like there was no big deal to it at all, could incite. I didn't know why or how, but it made my already quaking nerves flare with a different kind of – albeit still anxious, still half-terrified – energy and lifted the brick in the pit of my stomach ever so slightly, just enough that the next breath of air came easier.

It also loosened my tongue and made me blurt the one question I'd been holding onto since the second time we met. "Why haven't you prescribed me medication?"

"What?" He sounded surprised, but the flicker of his eyes and the slight twitch of his jaw gave him away.

Fumbling now that the gate was wide open, lower, and more to myself than anything, I asked again, "Why haven't you given me pills? Like… like antidepressants or something."

Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Cheney crossed an ankle over the opposite knee and steepled his fingers. "Do you think you need them?"

"Would they help me?" I breathed, as I reassumed my grip on the armrests. This time, if I broke them, I didn't care. They were all that was keeping me in the here and now.

He thought for a moment before offering a subtle nod. "Probably."

"Then why haven't you?" My forehead folded in confusion.

Head tilted in study, Dr. Cheney said – even and far, far more calmly than I felt – "For one, the first day we met, you told me that the one time you were on them they made you sick and made you feel worse. I take that kind of thing seriously." He reached over to his desk, grabbed a slim manila folder that I hadn't even noticed, and slid it toward me. "But I read the file your previous therapist sent over. It's no wonder you felt the way you did." He pursed his lips as though trying to decide how much to tell me. "Frankly, you were on a dosage I'd be hard pressed to prescribe and I'm not sure that it was the right medication for you anyway. Nothing against the guy you saw before, but honestly, medicating like that – to that extent and without much in the way of other treatment – is a… pretty dated methodology."

Another thing I didn't know how to respond to.

"Two," he went on. "The way I look at it is that medication is just a tool, one of many, really. If you don't include a lot of this..." he waved back and forth between us, "for people in your position, oftentimes pills are nothing more than a Band Aid."

All the air left my lungs in a screaming, frantic rush, and that brick dropped again, almost making me double over. Because out of everything he said, there was one thing I heard as clear as day: _confirmation_. Confirmation of everything I already knew. "People in my position?" The edges of the armrests bit into my fingers as I squeezed.

Dr. Cheney was looking at me again, weighing me, and I wanted to collapse. "People experience depression and other similar disorders for many reasons. In some cases, it's merely the product of physiology and genetics. In some cases… it's promoted by an event or situation, maybe something life altering or traumatic." He tapped his chin. "And in others, it's probably some of both."

"Which am I?"

"From what I can tell, you're probably in the latter category," he said. "The underlying tendency or predisposition has probably always been there. Your sister's death, and more so the aftermath – your own sense of guilt and your family's behavior – simply made it all spiral out of your control."

"Can I be fixed?" I whispered, incapable of hiding the desperation and fear that I couldn't be.

Abruptly, as though I'd thrown a bucket of ice water over his head, Dr. Cheney's spine straightened and he sat forward in his chair. Something akin to frustration flashed across his face, and almost curtly he said, "You know, I hear that phrase a lot and I've yet to figure out where, exactly, people get that crap from. Every time, though, I swear it's like nails on a chalkboard."

When I only stared at him, mute, not comprehending at all what he was saying, with a huff that bespoke a level of annoyance I'd never seen from him, Dr. Cheney raked his hand through his hair and explained, "'Fixing someone' implies that he or she is broken or non-functioning, that he or she has been destroyed and has to be glued back together in order to be useful or right."

"How is that not me?" I was only a little incredulous. No, I was _a lot_ incredulous, because if there was one thing I knew about myself, it was that _that_ – broken and non-functioning – was me. "That's exactly what I am."

He shook his head at me. "You're not 'broken', Edward."

Struggling to maintain eye contact, ashamed, and half-hating everything coming out of my mouth today, I mumbled a resigned, "I don't think I believe that."

He gave me a flat stare that said _he_ didn't believe _me_.

A moment later his expression softened, however, and quietly, almost contemplative, as though he were talking to himself as much as to me, he said, "Before Angela and I opened this office, I worked at a hospital – a psychiatric hospital – down in Portland. See, I've treated _a lot_ of people – a lot of people who suffer from very serious disorders… I've seen truly horrific things happen to people. I've seen people _do_ horrific things, to both others and themselves… But even still, in all the time I've been working with patients, I've seen very, very few people who I'd say that about. And you're definitely not one of them."

He continued before I could interrupt and disagree. "Another reason I hate that term is it also implies that I'm the one doing the fixing or that a bottle of pills is doing the fixing, and that's certainly not true. If you're going to insist on that phrase, then you need to at least be willing to admit that it's you who's doing it."

"I don't know…"

"Who chose to stop drinking?" When I didn't answer, he did for me. "That was _you_. You chose to do that. _You_ chose to call my office. _You_ made the appointment. And _you_ walked in here this morning just like you have five other times and like you will as many more as it takes.

"I did none of that. I'm just some guy in a chair who asks you a few questions every now and then."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to cling to that – to the idea that things could get better for me, that _I_ could get better and be happy and have a normal life and not be the miserable creature I'd been for so long. I thought about Bella and what I'd promised her and what I wanted to have with her one day, and I realized that I didn't just _want_ it. I _needed_ it – more than I needed to hide or escape from the sinking in my gut and pounding in my chest. I needed it more than anything.

This was why I was here.

My voice shook when I asked again. "So… medication. You really think it would help?"

"I do." He nodded. "At least some."

My throat tightened as another flutter of nerves assaulted my midsection and made every muscle in my body knot and tense. Closing my eyes, I focused on the ever-steady tick of the clock before I bobbed my head in a silent affirmative.

"You're sure?"

Still not opening my eyes, hovering at the edge of the black abyss and staring into its blackness, I sucked in a deep, steadying lungful of air. "Yeah, I'm sure… Whatever it takes."

.

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Silent Lucidity,_ by Queensryche.


	50. Though My Edges May Be Rough

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

Thank you, Scooterstale and BilliCullen.

**Note:** After this chapter, there is only one more regular chapter plus a short epilogue. I'll post them both at the same time.

* * *

_**Though My Edges May Be Rough (I'm Yours)**_

* * *

I stood just inside the doorway far longer than I should have.

But there in the middle of the bathroom, wearing nothing more than one of my old towels wrapped around her chest and with her hair flipped over and some ungodly loud hair dryer blowing underneath, I couldn't _not _stop when I walked by the open door, just like I couldn't _not_ stare at her like the idiot that I was, all the while thanking God that I still could.

Without thinking, in some kind of reflexive habit I'd picked up over these last few weeks, my eyes quickly moved over her, from head to red-painted toe, and I catalogued all of the little signs of slow, steady improvement.

At just over five weeks past that awful weekend – exactly thirty-seven days since Bella had _finally_ woken up in that hospital room and in the process granted me a second chance at breathing – almost all of the _visible_ evidence of her wreck was now gone. The angry bruises that had marred her face and arms were now nothing more than memory. Almost all of the cuts had healed and vanished, too, with only the long, deeper gash at her hairline remaining. But even it was nothing more than a silvery pink line of mended flesh, a whisper of the trauma that had nearly made me lose my mind.

Of course, wounds to the surface always healed the fastest, I reminded myself. It was the deeper ones, the ones that couldn't be seen, that took the longest. And of all people, I knew that some of them – the worst – maybe never healed at all.

Which was why my stomach twisted into a tight knot as I also silently recorded all of her other tells, too, the ones that Bella refused to voice aloud. Like how she still favored her left side, like the sharp, shallow intake of breath when she lifted the hair dryer too high… anything and everything that hinted that there was still pain.

Because that was just what I did now.

Dr. Cheney's low voice floated through my head, telling me again and again that there was nothing wrong with being concerned and vigilant, that being afraid for Bella – and for myself – was expected, and that what I felt was… _normal_. Shaking my head, I frowned down at the squares of tile, because frankly, I wasn't so sure, and I couldn't help but think that at least in some ways, maybe I'd traded one addiction for another. Yet at the same time, when I heard Bella humming over the blare of that stupid dryer, I couldn't bring myself to really care or want to change anything about the way I felt about her.

Abruptly, there was a click, and I jerked a little when the room went quiet. Before I could even think about announcing my presence, Bella flipped her head back up, and her hand flew to her chest.

"Jesus, Edward!" she half-shrieked.

Had I not seen her wince when she backed into the counter, I'd have laughed at her wide eyes and panting breath. But I _did_ see her, and I grimaced against the immediate, answering jerk on the knot in my gut. Fighting back a barrage of unspoken curses – the ingrained reaction I was supposed to be doing my damnedest to break – I shook my head, and with a quick intake of air that pulled my chest tight, my hands shot up in surrender, and I stepped into the bathroom. "Sorry," I said, tugging the dryer out of her hand and laying it aside. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She just rolled her eyes and laughed. "It's fine. You just startled me."

Hearing _that_ sound – her, _laughing_ – and the way it echoed in the small room silenced my cursing and made me smile back, and I outright grinned when I finally noticed the effects of all that blow drying. Hand on her hip and grinning back up at me in ways I'd never deserve, she looked like some kind of '80s throwback, teased and wild, with dark strands sticking out everywhere. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, I couldn't resist trying to pat it down and tame it.

"I like this look," I managed. "Bass or guitar?"

In a poor attempt at being affronted, Bella hid behind a huff and attempted a glare. "Shut it, ginger." A brow shot up in challenge, daring me to reply.

The effect was completely lost a second later, however, because as I smoothed the last wayward wisps of hair away from her face, she flattened her palms against my stomach, making my muscles twitch when her fingers stretched out to fit the lines between them. Even through my t-shirt, warmth radiated from those two points of contact and into me, a sensation that made my eyes automatically close and made the knot in my gut finally unravel. Without even realizing it, my arms circled her narrow shoulders so that I could pull her closer, and then closer again, until those two points became one long line of heat and skin down the length of my body.

After a moment, Bella squeezed my middle and looked up. "Did you just get home?"

I wondered if she realized what she'd just said – if it was on purpose, if she meant it, or if it was just some fluke. Regardless, _I _heard it, and the last bit of the lingering melancholy that always seemed to follow my visits to Port Angeles slid away – at least for now.

"Thirty minutes ago."

"Damn it. I'm running late, aren't I?" Her nose crinkled and she looked at me with just a hint of an apologetic smile. "I didn't realize I was in for so long."

Like I really gave a fuck if she was running a few minutes behind. She was _here_ – _still_ – and that was all that mattered. I grabbed her hand and kissed the tips of her pruny fingers before making a show of examining them. "Just like last time, huh?" One corner of my mouth drew up. "And the time before that? And the– "

Shaking her head at me, she tsked like I was five. "At least I don't spy on you when you're naked and try scare you to death."

"I'll only admit to doing half of that on purpose." I shrugged, not really sorry for that at all. "Frequently."

Glancing away, then back again, Bella blushed, a faint pink that crept across her pale cheeks and went all the way down the length of her neck to her chest. I hadn't seen that in… weeks – _months_ – and the unexpected appearance of it reminded me of all the things I'd been intentionally trying _not_ to think about. Like what hid beneath that towel. Like the soft weight of her body against mine.

I shifted slightly, drawing away just enough so that maybe she wouldn't notice. Clearing my throat, looking for a distraction from what I wasn't sure how to address just yet, I reached into my pocket and pulled out her cell phone. "Almost forgot. Your sister called while you were in the shower."

With a melodramatic groan, Bella's forehead dropped to my sternum, and my shirt twisted in her fist. "Shit. What did you tell her?"

My shoulders shook because there was no way in hell that I'd ever understand the inner workings of that relationship. "I told her that you were doing fine, same as you were yesterday, and the day before that."

"Was she mad?" she mumbled, her voice muffled by my shirt.

"Nah, just annoyed that you didn't call her."

"That's not it," Bella sighed, as her fingers walked up my stomach to my chest before trailing back down again. "It's stupid really."

Alice's clipped tone and sharp, _"Well, tell her to call me,"_ filtered through my thoughts. Resting my chin on top of Bella's head, I inhaled a mouth full of fragrant, still-humid air. "I don't think she likes me," I admitted, frowning when the reflection in the mirror over the sink caught my eye.

For a long second, I stared, forcing myself to look at my own appearance for once. Better than I once was, I was still thinner than I was supposed to be – cheeks a little too gaunt, my frame a little too lean – and the pale, purplish gray rings from so many nights of piss poor sleep still circled my eyes. And those were still a little too haunted, the green a little too flat. "Not like I can really blame her," I quietly added.

Sighing again, Bella shook her head. "No, she feels guilty. Trust me." She squeezed me tighter. "It's just because I wouldn't let her come up here, and because you're the one who took care of me when I came home, not her."

Not really feeling like delving into the tangled mess of my own guilt and self-loathing, knowing that whatever good mood that had been salvaged after this morning's session would be destroyed if I did, I leaned down, lifted her hair off her neck, and pressed my lips to that oh-so-soft spot just below her ear. The skin there pebbled the second I touched her, and with a quiet, girlish sound that somehow managed to go straight south, she squirmed a little against me.

"Well, there's that." Sufficiently distracted, she tilted and turned toward me like she was giving me permission to continue, and I felt her lips spread into a smile against my face. "You want to know a secret?" she whispered. Hooking her fingers around my belt loops, Bella pulled me this time and in doing so removed that little bit of space I'd purposefully created. "Like why I didn't let her come up here when I was in the hospital?"

I paused with my mouth still on her neck. "Why?"

"I didn't want to ruin their vacation."

"Their?" I asked. The vacation part I knew.

Bella reached up and smoothed away the furrow from my brows. "Yeah, he met her down in there in Cabo. She didn't even tell me until after she got back home."

Surprised but at the same time not, I chuckled and kissed her again, this time along the delicate line of her jaw, closer to her mouth and where I really wanted to be. "That asshole."

The squirming stilled, and she looked up at me, wearing what I could only describe as an expression of quiet assessment or contemplation. A second passed, and then another, before she pursed her lips and nodded once, as if she'd found the answer to some unspoken question.

"You're really okay with that?"

A soft, "yeah," came out without any real thought or direction.

"Really?" she pressed. "I know you said that… well, back before… that you were fine with it." She hesitated. "But they seem to be, I don't know… getting more serious."

"I'm…" I started, then stopped, recalling the long conversation Jasper and I had back before Christmas and trying to decipher what exactly it was that I felt now. It was some strange blend of amusement, nostalgia, and contentment, laced with maybe a hint of bitterness. The best I could come up with was, "If he's happy, I guess… I guess I'm happy for him." Quieter, staring down at my own version of happiness, I said, "Just like I hope he's happy for me."

Not saying a word, with a kind of focused intensity that coming from anyone else would have made my insides crawl, Bella stared back up at me. There was a certain shine in her eyes, a certain set of her mouth, a certain weight to her hands on me. It was at once both familiar and new, and I blinked, struck by the intimacy of our situation. Not sexual, just… intimate.

And in an instant of startling clarity, I realized that I didn't want her to _ever_ go back to her house, and that it wasn't because I didn't want to be alone, or because the memories always seemed to fade when she was near. It wasn't because my house sometimes still whispered in my ear and collapsed all around me, and it wasn't because of the guilt and regret and years' worth of hiding that still kept me awake at night.

No, it was because I wanted _this_ every day. I wanted to watch her brush her teeth in the morning and I wanted to hear her grumble at me when I left the cap off the toothpaste or when I forgot to wipe off the faucet. I wanted to see her shoes scattered all over my closet floor and see her clothes take over my drawers. I wanted her dog to hang out in my back yard and sit at her feet on my porch. And God, I wanted to see her dark hair fan out across the white pillow beside mine every single night when we went to bed.

And I didn't give a fuck if that was stupid or if it made me sound like a girl. I just wanted to live the rest of my life with _her_ all over it.

Overwhelmed, trying to ignore the heat that climbed my neck and swelled my lungs, I coughed and looked away. "Are you…" I swallowed. "You almost ready?"

When I glanced back, she was still staring at me, still watching my every move, but some of the intensity was gone, replaced by a hint of grin. "Do I look ready?"

I stepped back and eyed the way the towel had slipped down a couple of inches. "Look good to me."

Bella made a face and stuck out her tongue, but then turned serious, folding her lip beneath a row of white teeth. Her fingertips stole to my chin, and the sound of her nails gently scraping along my jaw reminded me that I had forgotten to shave again. "Are you sure you want to go… out?" Her brow wrinkled as she fumbled to find words that wouldn't hurt. "I mean, are you going to be okay with… The restaurant serves alco– "

Even without the rest of that statement, I knew exactly where her head was. I knew that in the back of her mind, she saw the shelves of gold-labeled bottles behind the bar. She saw the involuntary tremble of my hands and tap of my foot. She saw _me_, bloody and passed out on the kitchen floor. I knew it, not because of any specific tell or sign, but because when I let myself go there, I saw it, too. And as much as I despised admitting it, there was a not-small part of me that sometimes clawed its way to the surface and demanded the release that I could never allow myself to have again.

But that wasn't going to change any time soon, whether I hid from it or faced it head on. It was just one more demon to conquer, one more obstacle in the way of what I wanted. And right now, what I wanted was to take her out. On a date. Like any other _normal_ couple would do.

"It'll be alright." I hoped. "Now hurry up and get dressed, okay? I'm starving."

**~.~.~**

Wide awake and on my back, I stared at the pale silver light that shined through the open blinds, casting the dark room in a subtle glow. At somewhere well past midnight, it was just light enough that I could barely make out the shape of the fan blades over the bed. Beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat from her body and draped across a spare pillow to cushion her ribs, Bella was little more than a dark silhouette.

The house was quiet at this time of night – too quiet, really – with only the occasional creak or groan of the walls to cut through the silence. It was that time of night when though I was still, my brain never seemed to want to stop moving – when all the thoughts I'd consciously avoided and pushed away during the day came roaring back until I could think of nothing else.

Like what the hell was I going to do about my dad.

Like whether or not I thought I could stomach him being in the same room with Dr. Cheney and me, never mind him hearing me talk about all the shit that had ripped the family apart.

If my therapist was insane for even suggesting it.

Like what was coming up a month from now.

And how the fuck I'd ever make it through that whole day, _sober_.

How I had to.

Whether or not the little white pill I took every morning at breakfast was doing anything at all.

It was an endless parade of questions, none of which had an easy answer, and all of which made my mouth dry out and my skull start pounding. Folding my arms behind my head, I closed my eyes and tried to match my breathing to Bella's.

"_You're grieving, you're depressed, and you're a recovering alcoholic," _Dr. Cheney had said, plainly, pulling no punches when I'd broken down in his chair last Friday morning. "_Those things don't just go away overnight. It's going to take several weeks – likely months – for all of this," _he waved back and forth between us,_ "to start making a difference. It's a slow, gradual progression, not an instant change."_ He had paused then, waiting for me to look up from the floor. _"But Edward, things _will _get better. One day, you'll wake up in the morning and you'll realize it. You'll see all the tiny steps that you've made and didn't even notice along the way."_

I sighed into the dark, wanting so much for that day to be now.

"Hey," Bella murmured, moving her hand to my chest. When I didn't answer, she shifted closer, moving the pillow out of the way so that she could curl up against my side. Careful of her ribs and the still healing incisions, I gathered her closer. "What's wrong?" she asked, running her palm up and down my chest.

My throat bobbed when I swallowed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"What is it? Why are you still up?"

I looked down my chest even though it was too dark in the room to see her face. Like always, my first inclination, the product of so many years of hiding, was to lie and say that nothing was wrong at all, that everything was fine, that _I_ was fine. Before I could find any words to say, however, she said, "Never mind," and pressed her lips to my bare skin to disguise the disappointment. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

I stroked her hair, weaving my fingers through the silky strands. "Tomorrow, okay?," I managed, not wanting her to hear the pitch of anxiety that would bubble through if I let it. "Ask me tomorrow," I repeated. "I don't really want to think about it right now. But it's not bad, okay? Just… the normal shit."

With a nod I felt more than saw, her lips brushed across my chest again, lingering, warm, and so very soft, and then she laid her cheek over my heart as if to listen.

It was hers anyway. "I love you," I whispered.

Instead of answering, Bella craned her neck up to meet my lips, and the moment we touched, it was like I was melting into her. This was different from all the other quick kisses. This lasted longer. It was stronger. There was something else lurking beneath, a coiled spring that was just on the verge of releasing. It made me hard.

Maybe it was just because I couldn't see her, or maybe it was because she was half-naked and laying on top of me, or maybe it was because I could feel the supple roundness of her breasts, but her mouth was so warm and so wet, and when her tongue slid between my lips, asking for more than I really thought she was physically ready to give, my entire body flared to life and all the spiraling thoughts that had kept me awake ceased to exist.

There was only us, and I wanted to touch her _everywhere_. I wanted to lay her back and put my mouth between her thighs. I wanted to hear her curse and whisper my name in the dark. I wanted to lose myself inside of her and never find my way out.

Drunk on sensation and heat and just _wanting_, it took me a second to realize that she was climbing up to straddle me. "Bella, we can't," I made myself say, damning my hips to keep them down on the mattress when all they wanted to do was thrust against damp heat. "You're not supposed to–"

"Shh," she shushed, taking my mouth again, ignoring my pathetic excuse of a protest. "I'm fine."

My eyes rolled back in my head as she shifted her weight. "Bella–"

"We'll go slow."

"You don't have to do this because of–" I muttered, and then stopped when she rocked her hips a little harder. Incapable of letting her go, I ran my hands underneath my old shirt, up the silky skin of her back, and then around to her breasts. Her nipples were hard and ready, and she gasped against me when I rolled them between my fingers. And then she gasped louder when I stripped off her shirt so that I could feel _everything_, her skin against mine, all of her at once.

"I'm not… it's not just for you," Bella breathed, as she lifted off me just enough to pull her underwear off before reaching for mine. "Please don't say no."

"Wait," I whispered, even though I wanted her to do anything but.

"It's–" she started, frustrated, but then trailed off when, less than graceful, I crawled up the bed until I was sitting up with my back against the headboard. I blindly reached in the dark for her hand to pull her back on top of me.

"Come here. Get on me."

I groaned like a goddamned teenager when I felt her weight again, and once I was settled between her thighs, holding her hips to keep them from moving, I kissed her again and again, long and slow, dragging my lips up and down her neck before finally moving back to her breasts. When my mouth closed around a hard nipple and sucked, her back arched, pushing more of her into my mouth, and with a soft moan that made my dick fucking beg to thrust, she fisted the hair at my nape.

"Slow," I panted against her skin. "You have to set the pace. If it hurts–" I stopped abruptly, squeezing my eyes shut when slick, wet heat surrounded me. "_Oh, __Christ_."

Breathing low and ragged, we were still for a short forever, long enough for me to reclaim some sense of reason, check my grip on her waist, and pull my knees up behind her. Reaching up, framing her face between my palms and threading my fingers deep into her hair, I pulled Bella's mouth to mine and slid my tongue against hers in time to the slow rocking of her hips, trying to make her understand exactly what she did to me, what she meant, how I didn't ever again want to know what it was to not have her. How I loved her so much I couldn't breathe sometimes.

"You can move, Edward," she whispered against my lips, tugging my head back so that she could suck on my neck. The scrape of her teeth almost killed me. "I won't break. Touch me."

"I want to feel you come," I whispered back, dropping my hand down between us where I could circle my thumb over her clit. "I want you to feel good."

"More." It came out as a shaky command, and when I gave it, moving my fingers faster, pressing firmer, her nails bit into the tops of my shoulders with a breathless, "Oh, fuck," that made me damned near lose my mind.

God only knew how long we stayed like that – touching, kissing, holding back from doing anything more than slow, slick thrusts and gentle rocking – while I coaxed her to orgasm. As much as I ached to finish, as much as I wanted to bury myself inside her and let everything go, I could have made love to her like that for hours, no rushing, just reveling in both soft warmth and tight friction and the fact that when we were like this, everything was right in the world. When Bella finally came, jerking and exhaling my name, it felt like the damned earth moved, and the only coherent thought that crossed my mind before it blanked when I followed her was that I needed to punch myself for not turning on the light so that I could see her.

Damp from sweat and slumped on top of me, Bella's forehead rested against mine, slowly shaking back and forth. "I love you, too," she murmured, gently touching her lips to mine one last time. I could feel her smiling before she added, "And by the way, we can do this again tomorrow. Dinner optional."

Hugging her too tightly, I laughed hard, because in an abrupt moment of recognition, never mind all the shit that constantly plagued my mind, at least for now, in this single moment, as I sat here with her in the dark, exhausted, a little sore, and trying to catch my breath, I realized that I'd never felt so good in all my life.

.

.

.

* * *

**A/N:** For those keeping track, the date is Tuesday, April 26, 2011. If it's not clear, the event roughly a month from now that Edward is dreading above is the 5 year anniversary of Maria's death (June 2).

* * *

**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _I'm Yours,_by The Script.


	51. There's Only Here, There's Only Now

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

I can't thank these two ladies enough, **BilliCullen** and **Scooterstale**, both of whom stuck with me all the way from the very first chapter to the very end. You ladies are both wonderful, and this story turned out so much better because of your influence. Thank you one last time.

**Note:** This is the last regular chapter. A brief epilogue will be posted immediately after.

* * *

_**There's Only Here, There's Only Now**_

* * *

Slumped on the barstool, propped up by my elbows, I stared down at the kitchen counter, following the black, messy scrawl that filled the page. Starting with what was almost legible, each line progressively worsened, turning sloppier, slanting harder. There were countless dark splotches from where the pen had borne down too hard, too, and by the end, even though the words were by my own shaky hand, I could barely discern a single letter.

But then again, that wasn't really the point.

And now that I was finished, as I looked around the room, I didn't know what else I was supposed to do. I didn't know how to put the pen down. I didn't know how to stand up. I didn't know how to do anything.

I just knew that… it _hurt_.

It hurt in ways I hadn't known before. But unlike what I did know, this wasn't raw or angry or vicious. And even though in the back of my mind, the sights and sounds were all still there – the stench of blood and dirt, the dampness of the mist hitting my face, the screech of tearing metal and the wail of her horrific screams – there was no pounding in my head. There were no teeth tearing through my skin. There were no sharp knives carving their way down my chest.

Instead, I only felt empty. Like something essential, some part of my foundation, had been taken away and never replaced.

Lifting my face to the ceiling, I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath, trying to fill my chest with something that could displace this awful sense of being hollow inside. It worked for a handful of seconds, when the stretch of my ribcage gave me something new to feel, but relief was gone the moment my lungs collapsed. So I breathed in again, and again, over and over, sucking in chestfuls of warm, fragrant air, wanting to hold on to that distraction of physical sensation – _needing to_ – so that I could stop myself from drowning in _nothing_.

When that stopped working, too tired to hold myself up anymore, my arms folded and I laid down my head. The granite was hard and cold against my cheek, but the discomfort barely registered at all, and after a moment, the room began to slowly blur, turning into a watercolor of misshapen lines and color. I didn't understand why until I wiped my thumb across my eyes.

At some point, minutes or maybe days later, from somewhere behind me came the soft pad of bare feet across the tile, followed by a quiet intake of air. Before I could raise my head, however, my whole back was suddenly blanketed in warmth when Bella's chest pressed tight against me. And then her arms snaked under mine, wrapping around my middle, hugging me even tighter.

"Hey," she quietly said, as she rested her chin on my shoulder.

The comforting weight of her, the blended scent of her lotion and my soap, the softness of her voice – just… _Bella_ – acted like a kind of grounding, like a tether to the here and now, pulling me back from an edge I hadn't even been aware of, and when I breathed in again, some of the hollowness seemed to peel away and recede. Without thinking, I reached down to my stomach and clasped one of her hands, locking her fingers between my knuckles.

"I want a drink," I whispered.

All around me, she stiffened. "Ed–"

I shook my head and clung to her hand when I thought she'd pull away. "No, don't worry. I'm not going to… I _can't_," I said, rushing through the words, spitting them out so that they would be true. "I just… I just wanted you to know that… that I _want_ to."

"Okay," was all Bella replied, but then her lips pressed against my shoulder blade through my shirt and the hand I wasn't latched onto left my stomach so that she could brush the damp hair off my forehead.

Swiping at my eyes again, I swallowed back a lump of thick salt and acknowledged what I finally understood to be the grief that I'd been running from for so long. To Bella, but mostly to myself, I confessed, "I _miss_ her."

Bella exhaled slowly. "I know," she said, and then she kissed my shoulder again. "I know you do."

Time here in my kitchen was a strange entity, something my mind couldn't seem to follow, so I wasn't sure how long we stayed like that– me folded in half across the counter, Bella wrapped around me. We didn't speak. And other than the occasional tightening of my grip or the light stroke of her fingertips across my face, we didn't move either.

I supposed that we stayed like that until I could feel something again.

**~.~.~**

"Do you want food?"

Startled by the abrupt intrusion of sound, I looked up and around until my eyes found a familiar slender figure directly in front of me. Across the bar, Bella stood, wearing nothing more than a faded t-shirt, a pair of my old pajama pants rolled up at the waist, and a soft, close-lipped smile. Her hair was up in some kind of knot, with a handful of strands falling loose and framing her face, and my lips lifted in involuntary response because, for whatever reason, she'd never been more beautiful than she was right now.

"Food?" she asked again, lifting her brows as she leaned across the bar to rub something off my face.

"I don't kno–" I stopped, trying to think, and it was like sifting through thick, sticky cobwebs. The cramp in my gut answered for me. "Yeah, I guess. Did I fall asleep?"

"You did." Before pulling away, Bella rubbed my cheek again with a quiet, impatient huff, and then moved toward the refrigerator. "Your watch left a mark."

Scrubbing my face a little too hard, still struggling to wake up and knock the lingering cobwebs away, I mumbled, "How long?"

"Thirty, or maybe forty, minutes," she called out as she disappeared behind the refrigerator door. "What do you want?"

"I don't care." I frowned down at the granite and followed the path of one of the darker veins, noting the way the metallic flecks glittered beneath the overhead light. It looked like thousands of tiny diamonds hiding inside the rock. "Whatever's fine."

Rather than pressing or asking again, Bella continued rummaging through the refrigerator, finally making a triumphant, "_Ah-ha,"_ kind of noise when she pulled out a half-full gallon of milk. Vaguely, I processed the rattling of plates and the clink of silverware, and when I looked up again, it was just in time to see a slab of fudge-brown cake and a glass of milk being placed in front of me.

"Where the hell did this come from?" I asked before knocking back half the milk. I didn't even appreciate that I was thirsty until the liquid hit my tongue, but ice cold from being in the back of the fridge, enough to make my temples pang and my esophagus jerk, it washed away the tacky dryness of my mouth. So I swallowed down the rest in two more gulps.

The smile on Bella's lips widened as she watched me, turning carefully playful, and the contrast to the prior softness made me grasp just how much she'd been tiptoeing. "You doubt my baking prowess?" she asked, even as she filled my glass up again.

I _wanted to _laugh, but the best I could manage was a fleeting grin and dip of my head. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay, fine, that's probably true," she chuckled. Still smiling, she sat down and immediately stabbed a fork at her own slice, and for a split-second, I was transported back in time, to last July when covered in taupe-colored paint splatters, I'd first sat down at the table in _her_ house and shared this exact same meal. Mid-bite, Bella glanced up from her plate, almost as if she'd read my mind and seen the same scene. "There's a bakery right across from the grocery store, and it called to me. Just couldn't resist."

When I opened my mouth, only to find that no words would come out, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes abruptly dropped away from mine, and she quietly added, "Bad days deserve cake."

Hiding behind the glass in my hand, I nodded as my insides flipped in recognition, because there wasn't really any other way to put it.

Today _was_ a bad day.

Although as we sat in silence, eating chocolate cake that should have tasted like cardboard given my last several hours yet somehow didn't, I realized that while _bad_ and _hard _and maybe downright_ miserable_, the second of June, two-thousand eleven, wasn't the very worst of my days. No, I'd lived that one already, far too recently, and there was a small, sharp pulse of guilt deep in the center of my chest, because I was admitting that my _worst_ day had nothing to do with my sister and everything to do with the woman sitting across from me.

After only finishing about half of what was on my plate, I set my fork down, stood up to creaking knees and a stiff back, and walked around the bar, where Bella watched me as though I were about to run away, or maybe just fall down. "You done?" I asked, loosely looping my forefinger around hers. When she nodded, I slowly pulled her off her barstool and lead her into the living room. "Sit with me?"

Bella gave me another quiet smile – a softer, more solemn version of the wide grin she always reserved just for me – as I settled down at the end of the couch. When I motioned for her to lay her head down in my lap, the smile slipped and she looked at me in confusion.

"Humor me," I murmured, motioning again. After another second of hesitation, she finally leaned back with a curious tilt to her dark eyes, yet said nothing as I gently pulled at the knot of hair on the top of her head so that I could comb my fingers through it. She just closed her eyes and hummed with what I guessed was approval. Minutes passed like that, and not once did she guess why my fingertips traced the delicate lines of her face. She didn't wonder why I'd reversed our normal position either, although had she asked, my answer would have been simple. She'd done nothing but hold me together all day long, and now, I wanted to hold her a little.

"I spoke to Dad," I said after a while, talking to her, but maybe more to myself. Daring a glance down, I found her eyes wide open and staring up at me, her expression fathomless. I could only guess where her mind was.

"It was last night while you were out with the dog."

"What did he say?" she asked, just loud enough for me to hear.

Leaning my head back against the cushion, I watched shadows slide across the ceiling, chasing the orange light of the setting sun that now poured through the front picture window. It was still a little strange seeing that window so open and bare, devoid of the heavy curtains and blinds I'd never touched, but it was yet another tiny change brought on by the woman in my lap, another bit of brightness that shined through the house.

"He understood why I couldn't go with them today." I shrugged, still surprised by the easy conversation that I'd spent so much time needlessly dreading. "He didn't argue at all. Just told me… he said that it was okay and that if I didn't mind, they'd like to come by tomorrow before they go back to Seattle."

"They're coming over?"

"Yeah," I replied, as I slowly coiled a silken strand of hair around my finger, focusing on the dozens of shades of auburn and brown that only seemed to show in the sun. Unsure exactly why, I paused before softly asking, "Is that okay with you?"

When I let my eyes slide down again, I caught Bella's lips mashing into a tight straight line and her eyebrows slanting down into a sharp 'v'. "Is what okay?"

"My Mom and Dad coming over here." An spike of nerves shot through my limbs, making my hand twitch as I trailed the pad of my thumb over her forehead to massage away the furrow. "We could… I don't know… have lunch. Or something."

Bella grabbed my hand to still it. "Don't ever ask me that. It's always okay." The conviction and surety in her voice made my heart thump a little faster, and I waited a second before telling her what I really wanted to so that I could take a deep breath. Because the next part was harder and because thinking about it always made my stomach churn. " So I've been thinking..."

"About?" If she heard the slight tremble she didn't act like it.

"About what Ben said..." Bella's shoulders tensed, but she didn't say a word or press, or really even move. "Do you think," I started, then paused for another second to find the words. "Do you think he'd come if I asked him to?"

Against my thigh, Bella's shoulders sagged and her head rolled a little to the side so that she could see me better. "To see Ben with you?"

I nodded little too quickly.

"Yeah," she answered softly. "I'm sure he would."

**~.~.~**

It was sometime later when we began to speak again, maybe an hour or maybe longer. Outside, the sun had fallen below the trees and the sky had turned to charcoal, lit by just a hint of lingering pinkish light. Inside, it was darker, too, but the dim glow from the table lamp beside me felt somehow warm, comfortable almost, and it turned Bella's pale skin golden. Her eyes were closed again, but I knew that she wasn't sleeping. She was just letting me be, giving me quiet, and space, and everything else I ever needed.

I gently lifted her hand from where it was draped across her chest, flipping her wrist over so that I could stare at the three-inch line that still haunted my waking dreams. Like always, the sight of it was a punch to the gut, one that I instinctively shied away from, but after these past couple of months, and especially after today, there was more there now than just a reminder of what I almost lost or almost never had. There was meaning in that scar, an echo of _why_, and in that why, the memory of what she _did_ lose.

Wincing, I looked back to her face, and her eyes were open again, penetrating in their study, giving away little as she watched me watch her. Buying a second of time, I coughed and cleared my throat before I slowly said, "I hate that I wasn't with you back in February…" My voice was ragged from the swell of an emotion that nearly stole my breath. "I'm sorry you were alone."

And I _was_ sorry, so much, because I got it now. I got what it meant when she sat there beside me all day long, ignoring whatever else she needed to. I got what it meant when she served me cake and smiles, and I got what it meant when she wrapped her body around mine, lending me her warmth. Sitting here with her, feeling her weight on me, I understood what it was not to have to be alone anymore, and how that was so much better than the numbness I'd searched for in the bottom of my bottles of scotch.

"I'm–"

"I know you are." Bella's finger across my lips silenced me. "We've already gone over that. It's done."

I shook my head because there was more that I wanted her to know. Still grasping her hand, I pulled her wrist up, and with my finger, I traced the line of silvery flesh, noting her sharp intake of air when I did, before bringing it to my lips to kiss. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry you lost your son."

As if stricken, Bella's features froze in a mask of instant sorrow. She hadn't expected that and her eyes watered, yet no tears spilled over. I was afraid that I'd overstepped, but then she smiled. Vulnerable and sad, but a smile nonetheless. Just as softly, she whispered back, "I'm sorry you lost your sister."

My throat bobbed, fighting against the sudden sting behind my eyes, but then exhaling something between a sigh and a small, pained laugh, I said, "Yeah, me, too."

Twisting her wrist around to capture my hand, Bella squeezed my fingers before slowly asking, "Do you want to talk about her?"

There was a brief second of free fall, where my stomach plummeted, where the room fell away, and the couch beneath me ceased to exist. The air in my lungs burned hot and my eyes screwed shut, but instead of blackness, I saw the glare of headlights shining through the rain and the fast forward rush of an approaching tree. My chest throbbed, aching from an invisible weight, but when I opened my eyes again and felt Bella's hand still squeezing mine, that pain somehow faded.

I jerked in muted surprise as I realized that my reaction to that kind of question –no, _I_ – wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Just like before, it wasn't debilitating, and it didn't steal my air. There was just the same sense of emptiness that I'd felt this morning, only somehow _less_.

Reeling a little, I stared straight ahead, watching our reflection in the television screen, noting that in the dark outline, we looked like only one person.

"She was… she was stubborn," I heard myself finally say. My jaw twitched, as in my mind, there was a sudden image of a twelve year old girl stomping her foot and storming down the hall when she hadn't gotten her way one summer day. I hadn't remembered that afternoon in years, but almost as though it were yesterday, I could hear her high-pitched voice yelling at me because I'd said no when she had wanted to drive my car down the driveway. I shook my head. "And she could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. I swear, Mom and Dad let her get away with everything."

Chewing my lip, still remembering snippets from our shared youth that I'd _almost_ forgotten, I added, "She couldn't play the piano for shit." I chuckled quietly then, reliving all the hours I'd sat beside her, positioning and repositioning her chubby fingers. "Didn't have the span for it. Or the patience… God knows, I tried to teach her. "

"_You_ did?" Bella said, pulling me out of my abstraction. "You told me once that you played, but I honestly thought you were lying to impress me."

I laughed at that – a real laugh that shook my shoulders because I remembered the day I'd slipped and told her, too. She'd looked like a drowned rat, soaked to the bone, but smelled like a dream – like flowers and rain. "I used to be decent," I admitted, shrugging when her lips curved up. "I haven't really kept it up. It's… it's been a while since I wanted to."

Maybe one day.

"But Maria was… " I started again, moved by a sudden need for Bella to _know_ my sister. My chin fell to my sternum and I sighed heavily. "She was beautiful… Everyone says that, I know… about people who are…" I fought to hold the line of my smile. "But she was. She looked so much like my Mom, which is, I think, why it was so hard for my Dad… maybe for me, too."

I lifted my head toward the now barren wall that had once housed a dozen family pictures. "Good in school, too," I went on. "And she was… kind to people. That's why she was going into nursing." Half in the present, half in the past, I laughed again, this time quieter, nostalgic, longing for what could never be. "People just… _loved_ her. Everyone."

Bella sat up and settled beside me. But instead of letting go of my hand, she held on and circled my waist with the other, hugging herself tightly against my side, resting her cheek against my chest. When I breathed in, she was all that I could smell, all that I could taste, and all that I could feel.

I swallowed and kissed her forehead, burying my nose in her hair. "It gets easier, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she breathed, as she gripped my side tighter, finding the niches between my ribs. "Yes, it does. Slowly, but it does."

A long moment of silence followed, where I gazed around the room, stunned by the complex war that had waged inside my mind and body. I'd experienced it all today: laughter and sadness, fatigue and fear, bitterness, longing, and love. And now hope. Real hope, the kind that burrowed its way into my bones.

"Bella?" I asked, as my eyes glued themselves to the far wall.

"Yeah," she murmured, her voice muffled against my chest.

I loosened my hold and gestured for her to sit up a little more. "What… what do you think of this room?"

She spun half way around to study me. "What?"

Licking my lips and pressing my palm flat against the top of my knee to still it, I asked again. "What do you think of it?" I grimaced. "Be honest."

She took a moment to answer, with one finger tapping her chin, before looking up at me like she knew exactly where I was going. "I think," she said, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers, as though she were hiding a grin. "I think that I'm living with a man who's–"

"Colorblind?" I finished for her, recalling the very first time she'd said it.

"It's true," Bella answered, lifting up off the couch to press her lips to my cheek. Her lips were so warm and so soft. "You have a lot of things going for you. But you have _terrible_ taste in color. My house was awful when I got it. I kind of wanted to hit you."

I would have blushed but I knew that she was right. "Would you pick out a new one?"

Instead of responding immediately, she crawled onto my lap, this time straddling me so that we faced, and she gently took my face between her palms, preventing me from looking away. "I will if you want."

My hands automatically dropped to her waist, as though that was the only logical place they could ever be. "And will you bring over all your stuff? To stay?"

"After all that work we did on mine?" One brow cocked up, but I knew her answer because the rest of her face had gone all soft.

I nodded, tightening my grip on her hips to keep my hands from trembling.

"Yeah, I can do that."

Just like that.

Quieter, my heart fully in my throat, I told her, "I want to redo…" Hesitating for a split second, racing through all the arguments I'd had with myself over so many weeks, fighting with what I wanted and what I'd always known, I rushed through the rest. "The whole house… I want to start over. I want to do _all_ of it."

She tensed and her lips parted ever so slightly, because she knew what I was saying and what that meant. "All of it?"

"Yeah," I ducked my head before leaning closer to capture her lips, and my voice shook when I said, "There's one room though…" Gathering all my resolve, I sucked down a deep, cleansing breath, grateful that when my chest expanded, hers was there to meet it. "I may want… I might need to save it til last."

Slender arms wrapped around me and Bella hid her face inside the crook of my neck. Her lips moved against my skin. "Then we'll just save it until the end."

"It'll take a while," I warned, even as I held her tighter. "The house is still in pretty rough shape."

"Lucky for you," she whispered, kissing my neck before moving to my mouth. "I have a while."

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**A/N:** I'll say my goodbyes here.

**Thank you** to everyone for taking this ride with me. And a very special thank you to those who have been kind enough to stick with me from the very start – I'm rather humbled by your patience and persistence.

I may or may not have another fic up my sleeve ;) so if you're interested, you might consider alerting my pen. I really hope to see you all soon.

**Before you go on to the epilogue,** I'd like to make one final, more serious comment: Some of the themes in this story are very serious in nature and are more than just plot devices to me. Death, depression, substance abuse, and suicide are very real. Some of the choices that characters made in this story are not ones that I'd personally recommend or endorse. If you or someone you know needs help, please don't be afraid to seek it. Nothing is insurmountable.

-K

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _There Are the Days,_ by Van Morrison.


	52. Epilogue: It's Time to Make My Way

**SM owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story. 2010.**

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_I guess I just got lost, being someone else  
I tried to kill the pain, nothing ever helped  
I left myself behind, somewhere along the way  
Hoping to come back around, to find myself someday_

…

_I'll never find my heart, behind someone else  
I'll never see the light of day, living in this cell  
It's time to make my way, into the world I knew  
Take back all of these times, that I gave in to you_

…

_So I can shine with my own light  
Let me be myself_

**Epilogue: It's Time to Make My Way**

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_**June 2, 2011**_

_Dear Maria, _

_It's been a while. In fact, it's been five years since you died, to the day. You would be twenty-seven now._

_A couple of months ago, I started seeing a therapist, and he gave me some materials to read and some ideas to consider trying. One thing that came up in a few of his books and articles was the notion of writing a letter to those you've hurt or to those who have hurt you. It's supposed to be cathartic and it's supposed to be a way to help find closure. At first, I thought it was ridiculous – just a load of psycho-babble bullshit – but for some reason, I'm sitting here in the kitchen and I have a pen in my hand. And I'm thinking, "Why not? It can't hurt." _

_So, here goes…_

_I still think about you and about injustice – about how it's not fair that you aren't with us anymore and how I am. I think about how I could have done things differently – how I _should_ have done things differently. _

_I should have acknowledged that you were an adult and that you were more than capable of leading your own life. I should have been happy for you and I should have supported you when you decided to marry Jasper. I shouldn't have let my own clouded judgment rule me and I shouldn't have tried to force that judgment on you. _

_But now, I'm realizing that I can't change the past, no matter how much I wish I could. The hands of time turn in only one direction, and there's nothing I can do to erase that awful night – the one I still think about every time I look at my own scars in the mirror. I can't bring you back to life, and our family will never be whole again. We'll always miss you. _I_ will always miss you. More than you could possibly know._

_Mom and Dad are doing well. They moved away, out of the old house, to Seattle. Dad turned sixty last summer and he's still working, but now it's at a big hospital there in the city. At first, I didn't understand why they moved, and it hurt more than I admitted. It felt wrong and it made me angry. I felt like they were trying to forget you, to abandon you (and maybe me). So, naturally, me being me, I bought the place from them, I guess thinking that someone needed to preserve your memory. But I understand them now; I get that they weren't trying to forget, but rather trying to live and move on while still keeping you in their minds and hearts. They left you so that they could do that. _

_Emmett is married now to a woman named Rosalie. You never met her, but I think you would approve. She's tall and beautiful, but more importantly, she loves Emmett. They're in Forks again and they have a baby girl. I hope you don't mind that they named her for you – Lillian (after Rose) Maria Cullen. She has your eyes and she cries… almost as much as you did. Because of some things that happened a long time ago to Rose, they can't have another by themselves, but I think they're already planning to adopt. While Emmett hasn't said, I think he wants another girl. Really, I doubt they'll stop at two, though. You know how Emmett always loved kids and wanted a big family. Their house is a lot like a zoo, especially when Mom and Dad visit. But it's… warm, and being there makes me smile._

_Jasper is well, too. He still misses you, but he's in a good place, a healthy place. You know, I didn't speak with him for several years, but I do now sometimes. It's not the same – it will never be like it was – but we're getting closer to being friends again. We may even be family after all one day… who knows. He's dating this woman named Alice who lives out of state, and I think that maybe there is a future there. She's… interesting, and I can't say that I like her all the time, but she's good for him. She's the opposite of him in every way, but they seem to work somehow. Believe it or not, I could see you two being friends. _

_Me… I'm doing… better. I'm not completely well and I can't say that all my days are good. But I can see it down the road. I see hope and I see happiness. For the first time in years, I want that. I want to have a normal life and I want to laugh._

_For the last few years, I've been… lost, I guess you could say, consumed by bitterness and regret and misplaced anger. I don't know that it was all brought on by your death though… if I'm being honest, the foundation was always there. My therapist is helping me see that. It wasn't something we talked about, but I was never the cheerful, happy kid you were – or the rest of the family, for that matter. I've always been a little melancholy, a little brooding perhaps. And I didn't have the tools or strength to deal with your death in a healthy way, so I just… spun out of control. It never occurred to me to try to change. I felt like I deserved the despair, that it was my punishment for failing you. I felt unworthy and for a long time, I hated myself. _

_I've spent too many days and nights hiding behind bottles of alcohol trying to drown out all the memories that I didn't want to face. I can say that now, by the way – I'm an alcoholic. After you died, I didn't know how to deal with the grief and guilt, so I numbed myself so that I wouldn't feel at all. For so many years, I've been alone and I've been miserable. And to be honest, I've been the worst kind of dick to anyone and everyone. I can't tell you how lucky I am that Mom and Dad didn't disown me. But they didn't. _

_Dad and I are talking again. Slowly, but it's happening. When you died, he said some things that he didn't mean because he was grieving, and to make matters worse, I heard some things he didn't say. Some of the words I thought I heard were, as Dr. Cheney says, "projections of my own thoughts and self-loathing." For a long time, Dad and I were strangers and we were both so very angry. It's taking us a while to get over that. One day, though, I think we'll be okay. I hope so. I've missed him. _

_I'm making some changes to the house and that includes your room specifically. Your things – your clothes, your bed, and all your books – were never moved, and I've realized that it's probably not beneficial to anyone to live in a mausoleum. So with a little help, I'm going to package it all up. I don't know that I can just throw it away, but I'm not going to try to keep you alive by holding on to your possessions forever. Maybe I'll donate some things and keep some others. I don't know… I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. _

_I am getting rid of those godawful pink walls you insisted on when you were younger. And as stupid as it sounds, I think I'm going to move the piano upstairs (it will cost a small fortune to have it moved upstairs and to have it retuned but I think it might be worth it). I can't help but think that you'd be okay with that – having that bit of us in your space. I haven't played in years; I'm thinking that maybe I'd like to again. I remember that afternoon when you were ten, when you made me teach you the right hand part of Heart and Soul. And then, I remember that awful snaggletooth grin on your face when we 'performed' our duet for Mom and Dad. Every time I hear that song, I still think of you. Then again, a lot of things make me think of you. _

_So, you're probably wondering why this is all coming about – what's changed from last year. _

_See, I met someone, Maria. Her name is Bella, and I love her. It's scary sometimes, but in many ways, she's a lot like you. She's smart and beautiful and she makes me laugh – something I thought that I'd forgotten how to do. She doesn't take my shit and calls me out when I'm wallowing, but at the same time, she's kind and loving. She's so good for me. To me. Bella makes me want to get up in the morning and be everything she needs me to be for her, because she's been hurt before, too. _

_Bella just, I don't know, understands me, better than anyone else I know. She accepts my faults and she's the one who made me want to live again. She's the one who helped me finally understand that what happened with you wasn't my fault. It was an accident – I can say that now. And she's helped me understand that you deserve more from me – that I don't have to drown in grief to honor your memory. She helped me see that it's okay for me to be happy._

_For a brief moment, I thought I'd lost her. I pushed her away because I was too far gone to accept the fact that I am worthy of being loved, and then one horrific night, she almost died. The pain of that – of being alone again, of almost losing her – nearly broke me. It reminded me of what I felt when I lost you, only different, worse in a way. And I don't want to ever feel that again, not if I can choose not to. _

_Someday soon, I'm going to ask Bella to marry me. Not today, not tomorrow, not next month, but soon. I can't see my life without her in it. I don't want to even try. I want to love her every day I have left on earth. And I want to give myself to her in every way that I can. _

_It hurts to say this, but in some twisted way, you brought her to me. I still haven't reconciled the pang of remorse over that – over admitting that if you hadn't died, then probably, I would have never met the love of my life. But I don't think you want me thinking like that. Sometimes things happen that we can't hope to understand. We just have to trust and have faith that there's some reason, some purpose. I'm working on that. It's slow going, but… I'm trying. _

_Deep down, I know that you want me to be happy. I know that you don't want me to dwell and to spend all of my time regretting actions that I can't change. I'm tired of being angry and I'm so tired of the misery and sorrow. So, I'm fixing it. I'm fixing _me_ and moving on. Not just for Bella, but for me. _

_I want to live and I can't do that unless I forgive myself. So maybe this letter is me starting to do that – to forgive myself. Not forget… just forgive. I have to do that now. For the family, for Bella, but most of all for me. _

_I wish that our last words hadn't been spoken in anger. I wish that I'd have said that I loved you instead of yelled. _

_I miss your laugh and your smile. I miss the way you used to smack me on the shoulder and the way you used to stick your tongue out at me when I'd catch you stealing my old t-shirts. I miss the way any room would light up whenever you walked in, the way people naturally drew to you._

_I miss you, Maria, every single day._

_But I'd like to think that you know all of that without me telling you. I'd like to think that you know that I love you. No matter what happens, that will never change. You will always be my baby sister. _

_Love you always, _

_Edward_

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**Chapter title:** Lyrics from _Let Me Be Myself_, by 3 Doors Down


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